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lUMBS SWEPT UP 




T. DE WITT TALMAG 

EDITOR THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 



PUBLISHED BY 



THE CMRISTIAN HERA'i>D. <j^// 
Louis Klopsch, Proprietor, \\ X( 




BIBLE HOUSE, NEW YORK 




T'0 2,1^'^ 



-s^ 






Copyright 1897 
By LOUIS KLOPSCH. 




A PREFACE 

Is for explanation or apology. Many of 
these articles have appeared in the period- 
icals, but some of the chapters for the first 
time now go into print. 

We think it unwise to apologize for what 
we have on our dining-table. If it be good, 
all excuse is hypocrisy; if it be poor, let us 
postpone the news of our failure as long as 
possible. We shall be glad if the book 
makes any one happy. Thinking it bad 
manners to keep friends standing long at 
the front door, we invite the reader to come 
in and help himself. However plain the 
furniture may be, we bid him Welcome! 

T. DeW. T. 



(3) 



(oMteKT5. 



PAGE. 

Our Spectacles 7 

Champs Blysees 14 

Cut Behind 21 

The Kilkenny Cats 26 

Ministers' Sunshine 33 

Our First Boots 59 

The Smile of the Sea 63 

In Stirrups 69 

Good Cheer 76 

Power of a Child's Face 81 

The Old Clock 89 

Out-of-Doors 95 

Edinburgh as a Brain-Stimulant 104 

Hobbies 114 

Fallacies About the Sea 140 

" Stay Where You're Happy " 145 

Star Engagement 152 

Children's Books 156 

War to the Knife 161 

Fresh Paint 165 

Brutes 174 

A Nation Stunned 182 

Clerical Farming 187 

Making Things Go 192 

Saturday Night 197 

(5) 



6 Contents. 

PAGE. 

The Hatchet Buried :.<,.. 201 

House of Dogs 205 

Prayer-Meeting Killers 214 

"N." 219 

Pictures Felt 225 

Rip-Rap 234 

The Right Track 241 

Riding the Horse to Brook 246 

Ghosts 251 

Death of Newspapers 258 

City Fools in the Country 261 

Sublime Wretchedness of Watering Places . . 268 

Swallowing a Fly 307 

Spoiled Children 313 



CRUMBS SWEPT UP. 



OUR SPECTACLES. 

A man never looks more dignified than 
when he takes a spectacle-case from his 
pocket, opens it, unfolds a lens, sets it 
astride his nose, and looks you in the eye. 
I have seen audiences overawed by such a 
demonstration, feeling that a man who 
could handle glasses in that way must be 
equal to anything. We have known a lady 
of plain face, who, by placing an adorn- 
ment of this kind on the bridge of her nose, 
could give an irresistible look, and by one 
glance around the room would transfix and 
eat up the hearts of a dozen old bachelors. 

There are men, who, though they never 
read a word of Latin or Greek, have, by 
such facial appendage, been made to look 
so classical, that the moment they gaze on 
you, you quiver as if you had been struck 
by Sophocles or Jupiter. We strongly sus- 
pect that a pair of glasses on a minister's 
nose would be worth to him about three 
hundred and seventy-six dollars and forty- 
two cents additional salary. Indeed, we 
have known men who had kept their 

(7) 



8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

parishes quiet by this spectacular power. 
If Deacon Jones criticized, or Mrs. Go- 
about gossiped, the dom^"*^ie would get 
them in range, shove his glasses from the 
tip of his nose close up to his eyebrows, and 
concentre all the majesty of his nature 
into a look that consumed all opposition 
easier than the burning-glass of Archi- 
medes devoured the Roman ships. 

But nearly all, young and old, near- 
sighted and far-sighted, look through spec- 
tacles. By reason of our prejudices, or 
education, or temperament, things are apt 
to come to us magnified, or lessened, or 
distorted. We all see things differently — 
not so much because our eyes are different, 
as because the medium through which we 
look is different. 

Some of us wear blue spectacles, and 
consequently everything is blue. Taking 
our position at Trinity Church, and look- 
ing down Wall Street, everything is gloomy 
and depressing in financials, and looking 
up Broadway, everything is horrible in the 
fashions of the day. All is wrong in 
churches, wrong in education, wrong in 
society. An undigested slice of corned- 
beef has covered up all the bright prospects 
of the world. A drop of vinegar has ex- 
tinguished a star. We understand all the 
variations of a growl. What makes the 
sunshine so dull, the foliage so gloomy, 



Our Spectacles. g 

men so heavy, and the world so dark? Blue 
spectacles, my dear, 

Blue Spectacles! 

An unwary young man comes to town. 
He buys elegant silk pocket-handkerchiefs 
on Chatham Street for twelve cents, and 
diamonds at the dollar-store. He sup- 
poses that when a play is advertised ''for 
one night only," he will have but one op- 
portunity of seeing it. He takes a green- 
back with an X on it as sure sign that it is 
ten dollars, not knowing there are counter- 
feits. He takes five shares of silver-mining 
stock in the company for developing the 
resources of the moon. He supposes that 
every man that dresses well is a gentleman. 
He goes to see the lions, not knowing that 
any of them will bite; and that when peo- 
ple go to see the lions, the lions sometimes 
come out to see them. He has an idea that 
fortunes lie thickly around, and all he will 
have to do is to stoop down and pick one 
up. Having been brought up where the 
greatest dissipation was a blacksmith-shop 
on a rainy day, and where the gold on the 
wheat is never counterfeit, and buckwheat- 
fields never issue false stock, and brooks 
are always ''current," and ripe fall-pippins 
are a legal-tender, and blossoms are hon- 
est when they promise to pay, he was un- 
prepared to resist the allurements of city 



lo Crumbs Swept Up. 

life. A sharper has fleeced him, an evil 
companion has despoiled him, a police- 
man's ''billy" has struck him on the head, 
or a prison's turnkey bids him a gruff 
''Good-night!" 

What got him into all this trouble? Can 
any moral optician inform us? Green gog- 
gles, my dear. 

Green Goggles! 

Your neighbor's first great idea in life is 
a dollar; the second idea is a dollar — mak- 
ing in all two dollars. The smaller ideas 
are cents. Friendship is with him a mere 
question of loss and gain. He will want 
your name on his note. Every time he 
shakes hands, he estimates the value of 
such a greeting. He is down on Fourth of 
Julys and Christmas Days, because on 
them you spend money instead of making 
it. Hp has reduced everything in life to 
vulgar fractions. He has been hunting all 
his life for the cow that had the golden calf. 
He has cut the Lord's Prayer on the back 
of a three-cent piece, his only regret that he 
has spoiled the piece. He has calculated 
how much the interest would have been on 
the widow's "two mites" if she had only 
kept them till now. He thinks that the 
celestial city with pavements of gold is a 
great waste of bullion. No steel or bone 
eye-glass would fit the bridge of his nose. 



02ir Spectacles. ii 

Through what d'o'es he look? Gold spec- 
tacles, my dear, 

Gold Spectacles! 

I know a man who sees everything as it 
is: black is black, white is white, and 
speckled is speckled. He looks straight 
through a man, taking him at any point — 
heart, lungs, liver, ribs, backbone being 
no obstruction. People p?ss before him for 
what they are worth. The color of the skin 
is nothing, the epaulettes nothing, the spurs 
are nothing. He thinks no more of a dog 
because it once ran under the carriage of 
the Lord Mayor; and when a prince has 
an attack of nose-bleeding, the blood seems 
no more royal than that of other people. 
He takes out of one of his vest-pockets, 
scales, in which he weighs a man in an in- 
stant He takes out of the other vest-pocket 
a chemical apparatus, by which he tells 
how much of the man is solid, and how 
much gas. He never saw an angel or a 
spook. He never had a presentiment. 
Rather than trouble the spirits of the future 
world to come this way, he concludes to 
wait till he can go to them. He consults 
no wizard to find out the future; but by 
honest industry and Christian principle, 
tells his own fortune. The number of cats 
that wake him up at unseasonable hours is 
four, while to others it would have been 



12 Crumbs Swept Up. 

fifty. In the music of his hfe there are but 
few staccato passages. He uses no micro- 
scope to enlarge the httle, or telescope to 
bring hither the distant, but simply a plain 
pair of spectacles, honest spectacles, 

Truth-Speaking Spectacles! 

But sometimes these optical instruments 
get old and dim. Grandmother's pair had 
done good work in their day. They were 
large and round, so that when she saw a 
thing she saw it. There was a crack across 
the upper part of the glass, for many a 
baby had made them a plaything, and all 
the grandchildren had at some time tried 
them on. They had sometimes been so 
dimmed with tears that she had to take 
them off and wipe them on her apron be- 
fore she could see through them at all. Her 
''second-sight" had now come, and she 
would often let her glasses slip down, and 
then look over the top of them while she 
read. Grandmother was pleased at this re- 
turn of her vision. Getting along so well 
without them, she often lost her spectacles. 
Sometimes they would lie for weeks un- 
touched on the shelf in the red morocco 
case, the flap unlifted. She could now 
look off upon the hills, which for thirty 
years she had not been able to see from 
the piazza. Those were mistaken who 
thought she had no poetry in her soul. You 



Our Spectacles. 13 

could see it in the way she put her hand 
under the chin of a primrose, or cultured 
the geranium. Sitting on the piazza one 
evening, in her rocking-chair, she saw a 
ladder of cloud set up against the sky, and 
thought how easy it would be for a spirit 
to climb it. She saw in the deep glow of 
the sunset a chariot of fire, drawn by 
horses of fire, and wondered who rode in 
it. She saw a vapor floating thinly away, 
as though it were a wing ascending, and 
Grandmother muttered in a low tone: "A 
vapor that appeareth for a little season, 
and then vanisheth away." She saw a hill 
higher than any she had ever seen before 
on the horizon, and on the top of it a 
King's castle. The motion of the rocking- 
chair became slighter and slighter, until it 
stopped. The spectacles fell out of her lap. 
A .child, hearing it, ran to pick them up, 
and cried: ''Grandmother, what is the 
matter?" She answered not. She never 
spake again. Second-sight had come! Her 
vision had grown better and better. What 
she could not see now was not worth seeing. 
Not now through a glass darkly! Grand- 
mother had no more need of spectacles! 



■)o(- 



14 Crumbs Swept Up. 

CHAMPS ELYSfiES. 

The scarlet rose of battle is in full bloom. 
The white water-lily of fear trembles on 
the river of tears. The cannon hath retched 
fire and its lips have foamed blood. The 
pale horse of death stands drinking out of 
the Rhine, its four hoofs on the breast-bone 
of men who sleep their last sleep. The red 
clusters of human hearts are crushed in the 
wine-press just as the vineyards of Moselle 
and Hockheimer are ripening. Chassepot 
and mitrailleuse have answered the needle- 
gun; and there is all along the lines the 
silence of those who will never speak again. 

But Paris has for an interval, at least, 
recovered from her recent depression. Yes- 
terday 1 stood at the foot of the Egyptian 
red-granite obelisk, dug out three thou- 
sand four hundred years ago, and from the 
top of which, at an elevation of seventy- 
two feet, the ages of the past look down 
upon the splendors of the present. On 
either side the obelisk is a fountain with six 
jets, each tossing into the bronze basin 
above; a seventh fountain, at still greater 
elevation, overflowing and coming down 
to meet them. Ribbons of rainbow flung 
on the air: golden rays of sunlight inter- 
woven with silver skeins of water, while the 
wind drives the loom. Tritons, nereids, 
genii, dolphins, and winged children dis- 



Champs Elysies. 15 

porting themselves, and floods clappins: 
their hands. 

From the foot of the obeHsk, looking off 
to the south, is the Palace of the Legisla- 
ture — its last touch of repairs having cost 
four million dollars — its gilded gates, and 
Corinthian columns, and statues of Justice, 
and Commerce, and Art, and Navigation — 
a building grand with Vernet's fresco, and 
Cortot's sculpture, and Delacroix's alle- 
gories of art, and the memory of Lamar- 
tine's eloquence; within it the hard face of 
stone soft with gobelin tapestry, and ara- 
besque, and the walls curtained with velvet 
of crimson and gleaming gold. 

From the foot of the obelisk, glancing to 
the north, the church of the Madeleine 
comes into sight, its glories lifted up on the 
shoulders of fifty-two Corinthian columns, 
swinging against the dazed vision its huge 
brazen doors, its walls breaking into in- 
numerable fragments of beauty, each piece 
a sculptured wonder: a king, an apostle, 
an archangel, or a Christ. The three cu- 
polas against the sky great doxologies in 
stone. The whole building white, beauti- 
ful, stupendous — the frozen prayer of a 
nation. 

From the foot of the obelisk, looking 
east through a long aisle of elms, chestnuts, 
and palms, is the Palace of the Tuileries, 
confronting you with one thousand feet of 



i6 Crumbs Swept Up. 

facade, and tossed up at either side into im- 
posing- pavilions, and sweeping back into 
the most brilHant picture-galleries of all the 
world, where the French masters look 
tipon the Flemish, and the black marble of 
the Pyrenees frowns upon the drifted snow 
of Italian statuary: a palace poising its 
pinnacles in the sun, and spreading out 
balustrades of braided granite. Its inside 
walls adorned with blaze of red velvet cool- 
ing down into damask overshot with green 
silk. Palace of wild and terrific memories, 
orgies of drunken kings, and display of 
coronation festivity. Frightful Catherine 
de Medicis looked out of those windows. 
There, Marie Antoinette gazed up toward 
heaven through the dark lattice of her own 
broken heart. Into those doors rushed the 
Revolutionary mobs. On that roof the 
Angel of Death alighted and flapped its 
black wings on its way to smite in a day 
one hundred thousand souls. Majestic, 
terrible, beautiful, horrible, sublime Palace 
of the Tuileries. The brightness of a hun- 
dred fete days sparkle in its fountains! The 
gore of ten thousand butcheries redden the 
upholstery ! 

Standing at the foot of the obelisk, we 
have looked toward the north, and the 
south, and the east. There is but one way 
more to look. Stretching away to the west, 
beyond the sculptured horses that seem all 



Champs hlysies. 17 

a-quiver with life from nostril to fetlock, 
and rearing till you fear the groom will no 
longer be able to keep them from dashing 
ofif the pedes'tal, is the Champs Elysees, the 
great artery through which rolls the life of 
Parisian hilarity. It is, perhaps, the wid- 
est street in the world. You see two long 
lines of carriages, one flowing this way, 
the other that, filled with the merriment of 
the gayest city under the sun. There they 
go! viscounts and porters, cab-drivers of 
glazed hat taking passengers at two francs 
an hour, and coachman with rosetted hat, 
and lavender breeches, his coat-tails flung 
over the back of the high seat — a very 
constellation of brass buttons. Tramp, 
and rumble, and clatter! Two wheels, four 
wheels, one sorrel, two sorrels! Fast 
horse's mouth by twisted bit drawn tight 
into the chest, and slow horse's head hung 
out at long distance from the body, his feet 
too lazy to keep up. Crack! crack! go a 
hundred whips in the strong grasp of the 
charioteers, warning foot-passengers to 
clear the way. Click! click! go the swords 
of the mounted horse-guards as they dash 
past, sashed, feathered, and epauletted. 

On the broad pavements of this avenue 
all nations meet and mingle. This is a 
Chinese with hair in genuine pig-tail twist, 
and this a Turk with trowsers enough for 
seven. Here, an Englishman built up solid 



1 8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

from the foundation, buttressed with 
strength; the apotheosization of roast-beef 
and plum-pudding; you can tell by his 
looks that he never ate anything that dis- 
agreed with him. Here, an American so 
thin he fails to cast a shadow. There, a 
group of children playing blind-man's buff, 
and, yonder, men at foot-ball, with circle 
of a hundred p^^ople surrounding them. 
Old harpers playing their harps. Boys fid- 
dling. Women with fountains of soda- 
water strapped to their back, and six cups 
dangling at their side, and tinkling a tiny 
bell to let the people know where they may 
get refreshment. Here, a circle of fifteen 
hobby-horses poised on one pivot, where 
girls in white dresses, and boys in coat of 
many colors swing round the circle. Ped- 
dler with a score of balloons to a string 
sending them up into the air, and willing 
for four sous to make any boy happy. 
Parrots holding up their ugliness by one 
claw, and swearing at passers-by in bad 
French. Canaries serenading the sunlight. 
Bagpipers with instruments in full screech. 
"Punch and Judy," the unending joke of 
European cities, which is simply two doll- 
babies beating each other. 

Passing on, you come upon another cir- 
cle of fountains, six in number — small but 
beautiful, infantile fountains, hardly born 
before they die, rocked in cradle of crystal. 



Champs Elysies. 19 

then buried in sarcophagus of pearl. The 
water rises only a short distance and bends 
over, like the heads of ripe grain, as though 
the water-gods had been reaping their har- 
vest, and here had stacked their sheaves. 
And now we find toy-carriages drawn by 
four goats with bells, and children riding, 
a boy of four years drawing the rein, 
mountebanks tumbling on the grass, jug- 
glers with rings that turn into serpents, and 
bottles that spit white rabbits, and tricks 
that make the auditor's hat, passed up, 
breed rats. 

On your way through the street, you 
wander into grottos, where, over colored 
rocks, the water fahs, now becoming blue 
as the sea, now green as a pond, and now, 
without miracle, it is turned into wine. 
There are maiden-hair trees, and Irish 
yews, and bamboo, and magnolias, and 
banks of azaleas, and hollies, and you go 
through a Red Sea of geraniums and dah- 
lias dry-shod. You leave on either hand 
concert-castles, and parti-colored booths, 
and kiosks inviting to repose, till you come 
to the foot of the Arc de Triomphe, from 
the foot of which radiate eleven great ave- 
nues, any one of which might well be a 
national pride, and all of them a-rumble 
with pomp and wealth, and the shock of 
quick and resonant laughter. 

On opposite sides of the archway are two 



20 Crumbs Swept Up. 

angels, leaning toward each other till their 
trumpets wellnigh touch, blowing the news 
of a hundred victories. Surely neve'r before 
or since was hard stone ever twisted into 
such wreaths, or smoothed into such sur- 
faces. Up and down frieze and spandrel 
are alto-rilievo with flags of granite that 
seem to quiver in the wind, and helmets 
that sit soft as velvet on warrior's brow; 
and there are lips of stone that look as if 
they might speak, and spears that look as 
if they might pierce, and wounds that look 
as if they might bleed, and eagles that look 
as if they might fly. Here stands an angel 
of war mighty enough to have been just 
hurled out of heaven. On one side of the 
Arch, Peace is celebrated by the sculptor 
with sheaves of plenty, and chaplets of 
honor, and palms of triumph. At a great 
height, Austerlitz is again enacted, and 
horse and horsemen and artillery and gun- 
ners stand out as though some horror of 
battle had chilled them all into stone. 

By the time that you have mounted the 
steps, and stand at the top of the Arch, the 
evening lamps begin a running fire on all 
the streets. The trees swing lanterns, and 
the eleven avenues concentrating at the 
foot of the Arch pour their brightness to 
your feet, a very chorus of fire. Your eye 
treads all the way back to the Tuileries on 
bubbles of flame, and stopping half-way the 



Ctd Behind. 21 

distance to read, in weird and bewitching 
contrivance of gas-light, an inscription 
with a harp of fire at the top and an arrow 
of fire at the bottom, the charmed words of 
every Frenchman, Champs £lysees! 



-)o(- 



CUT BEHIND. 

Scene: — A crisp morning. Carriage 
with spinning wheels, whose spokes glisten 
like splinters of the sun. Roan horse, 
flecked with foam, bending into the bit, 
his polished feet drumming the pavementin 
challenge of any horse that thinks he can 
go as fast. Two boys running to get on the 
back of the carriage. One of them, with 
quick spring, succeeds. The other leaps, 
but fails, and falls on the part of the body 
where it is most appropriate to fall. No 
sooner has he struck the ground than he 
shouts to the driver of the carriage, "Cut 
Behind!" 

Human nature the same in boy as man. 
All running to gain the vehicle of success. 
Some are spry, and gain that for which 
they strive. Others are slow, and tumble 
down; they who fall crying out against 
those who mount, "Cut Behind!" 

A political office rolls past. A multitude 
spring to their feet, and the race is on. 



22 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Only one of all the number reaches that for 
which he runs. No sooner does he gain 
the prize, and begin to wipe the sweat 
from his brow, and think how grand a 
thing it is to ride in popular preferment, 
than the disappointed candidates cry out: 
"Incompetency! Stupidity! Fraud! Now let 
the newspapers and platforms of the coun- 
try 'Cut Behind!' " 

There is a golden chariot of wealth roll- 
ing down the street. A thousand people 
are trying to catch it. They run. They 
jostle. They tread on each other. Push, 
and pull, and tug! Those talk most 
against riches who cannot get them. Clear 
the track for the racers! One of the thou- 
sand reaches the golden prize, and mounts. 
Forthwith the air is full of cries: "Got it by 
fraud! Shoddy! Petroleum aristocracy! 
His father was a ragpicker! His mother 
was a washerwoman! I knew him when 
he blackened his own shoes! Pitch him off 
the back part of the golden chariot! Cut 
behind! Cut behind! " 

It is strange that there should be any 
rivalries among ministers of religion, when 
there is so much room for all to work. But 
in some things they are much like other 
people. Like all other classes of men, they 
have one liver apiece, and here and there 
one of them a spleen. In all cases the 
epigastric region is higher up than the 



Cut Behind, 23 

hypogastric, save in the act of turning 
somersault. Like others, they eat three times 
a day when they can get anything to eat. 
Besides this, it sometimes happens that we 
find them racing for some professional 
chair or pulpit. They run well — neck and 
neck — while churches look on and wonder 
whether it will be *'Dexter" or the "Amer- 
ican Girl." Rowels plunge deep, and fierce 
is the cry, ''Go 'long! Go 'long!" The 
privilege of preaching the gospel to the 
poor on five thousand dollars a year is 
enough to make a tight race anywhere. 
But only one mounts the coveted place; 
and forthwith the cry goes up in consocia- 
tions and synods: ''Unfit for the place! 
Can't preach! Unsound in the faith! Now 
is your chance, O conferences and pres- 
byteries, to CUT behind!" 

A fair woman passes. We all admire 
beauty. He that says he don't, lies. A 
canting man, who told me he had no ad- 
miration for anything earthly, used, instead 
of listening to the sermon, to keep squint- 
ing over toward the pew where sat Squire 
Brown's daughter. Whether God plants a 
rose in parterre or human cheek, we must 
admire it, whether we will or not. While 
we are deciding whether we had better take 
that dahlia, the dahlia takes us. A star 
does not ask the astronomer to admire it; 
but just winks at him, and he surrenders, 



24 Crumbs Swept Up. 

with all his telescopes. This fair woman in 
society has many satellites. The boys all 
run for this prize. One of them, not hav- 
ing read enough novels to learn that ugli- 
ness is more desirable than beauty, wins 
her. The cry is up: *'She paints! Looks 
well; but she knows it. Good shape; but 
I wonder what is the price of cotton! 
Won't she make him stand around! Prac- 
ticality worth more than black eyes! Fool 
to marry a virago!" 

In many eyes success is a crime. 'T do 
not like you," said the snowflake to the 
snowbird. *'Why?" said the snowbird. 
''Because," said the snowflake, *'you are 
going up, and I am going down!'' 

We have to state that the man in the car- 
riage on the crisp morning, though he had 
a long lash-whip, with which he could have 
made the climbing boy yell most lustily, 
did not cut behind. He was an old man; 
in the corner of his mouth a smile, which 
was always as ready to play as a kitten 
that watches for some one with a string to 
ofifer the slightest inducement. He heard 
the shout in the rear, and said, "Good 
morning, my son. That is right; climb 
over and sit by me. Here are the reins; 
take hold, and drive. Was a boy myself 
once, and I know what tickles youngsters." 

Thank God there are so many in the 
world that never *'cut behind," but are 



Ciit Behind. 25 

ready to give a fellow a ride whenever he 
wants it. Here is a young man, clerk in a 
store. He has small wages, and a mother to 
take care of. For ten years he struggles 
to get into a higher place. The first of 
January comes, and the head of the com- 
mercial house looks round and says, ''Try- 
ing to get up, are you?" And by the time 
three more years have passed the boy sits 
right beside the old man, who hands over 
the reins, and says, ''Drive!" for the old 
merchant knew what would tickle the 
youngster. Jonathan Goodhue was a boy 
behind the counter; but his employer gave 
him a ride, and London, Canton, and Cal- 
cutta heard the scratch of his pen. Lenox, 
Grinnell, and the Aspinwalls carried many 
young men a mile on the high road of 
prosperity. 

There are hundreds of people whose 
chief joy is to help others on. Now 
it is a smile, now a good word, now 
ten dollars. May such a kind man always 
have a carriage to ride in and a horse not 
too skittish! As he goes down the hill of 
life, may the breeching-strap be strong 
enough to hold back the load! 

When he has ridden to the end of the 
earthly road, he will have plenty of friends 
to help him unhitch and assist him out of 
the carriage. On that cool night it will be 
pleasant to hang up the whip with which 



26 Crumbs Swept Up. 

he drove the enterprises of a Hfetime, and 
feel that with it he never "cut behind" at 
those who were struggling. 

)o( 



THE KILKENNY CATS. 

Among the beautiful hills of an inland 
county of Ireland, occurred a tragedy 
with which we are all familiar. It seems 
that one day, urged on by a malevolent 
and violent spirit, two cats ate each other 
up, leaving nothing but the tips of their 
tails. There never has been a more ex- 
haustive treatment of any subject. 

We were once disposed to take the whole 
account as apocryphal. We asked our- 
selves how it was possible. There are 
anatomical and mathematical laws denying 
it. Admit a moment, for the sake of argu- 
ment, that they succeeded in masticating 
each other's heads, all progress must have 
ceased at that point, for the teeth of both 
parties having been destroyed, how could 
they have pursued their physiological in- 
vestigations any further? Besides this, di- 
gestion could not have been going on in 
both their stomachs at the same time, for 
at the hour when the salivary fluid was 
passing from the parotid and submaxillary 
glands of cat number one upon cat num- 
ber two, the pancreatic secretions in the 



The Kilkenny Cats. 27 

latter would have been so neutralized that 
they could not have acted upon the organ- 
ism of the former. (See Bardach on "Phy- 
siology;" Treviranus on '^Uniformity of 
Phenomena;" Van Helmont on the ''Car- 
diac Orifice;" Sylvius on "Chyle;" Martin 
Farquhar Tupper on "Solitude;" and Blu- 
menbach on "Nisus Formativus.") 

Furthermore : The conclusion of the Kil- 
kenny story in regard to the uninjured ex- 
tremities of the two cats would seem to 
prove the fallacy of the whole narrative, 
because the ferocity of felines which stop- 
ped not for ribs, back-bone, sirloin, and 
haunches, would have gone on till none 
would have been left to tell the tale. 

Nevertheless, I must accept the histor- 
ical accuracy of the statement. It is con- 
firmed by the Fathers and contemporary 
witnesses, and by our own observation. In 
our boyhood, the housekeeper complained 
about a cat that was perpetually ravaging 
the milk-pans; and so we descended into 
the cellar with a bean-pole, expecting at 
one blow to wreak capital punishment upon 
the depredator. It was one of the evilest 
hours of our lives. Sitting in our study 
this morning, at peace with all the world, 
we shudder at the reminiscence. At our 
first stroke, the cat of ordinary dimensions 
swelled up into a monster, that with glar- 
ing eyes darted after us. We felt that our 



28 Crumbs Swept Up. 

future usefulness, and the interests of the 
Reformed Dutch Church, with which we 
were then connected, depended upon the 
strength of our bean-pole, and with one 
terrific stroke we sent her back to the wall 
of the cellar. Each stroke of our weapon 
increased the circumference of her eyes, 
the height of her bristles, the length of her 
tail, and the agony of the encounter. Our 
bean-pole broke! but this only roused us 
to more determination. What a story it 
would be to tell, that a youth, fresh from 
scanning Virgil, and from parsing of Mil- 
ton's Battle of Archangels, had been killed 
by a cat! That should never be! She 
came up with redoubled fury, the dirt fly- 
ing from her paws, and her intensity of 
feeling on the subject emphasized by a 
supernatural spit. We called out for re- 
enforcements. The housekeeper came 
with broomstick to the charge. We gave 
her the field. We did not want to monopo- 
lize all the glory ol the affray. We stood 
on the steps with every possible word of 
encouragement. We told her that the 
eyes of the world were upon her. We 
cried: ''Give it to her!" All our sym- 
pathies were with the broomstick; and it 
is sufficient to remark that we won the 
day. 

I have been ready ever since to believe 
the story of the Kilkenny cats. If any other 



The Kilkeruiy Cats, 29 

cat, and in the same frame of mind, had 
met the one that we fought, they would 
not have stopped, they could not have been 
appeased, they would have clinched, 
gnawed, chewed up, ground to pieces, and 
devoured each other, and the melancholy 
event with which we opened this chapter 
would have been equalled, if not surpassed. 

But why go so far to look for Kilkenny 
cats, when we could, in three minutes, 
point you out a dozen? 

Two men go to law about some insignifi- 
cant thing. They retain counsel, enter 
complaints, subpoena witnesses, empanel 
juries, hear verdicts, make appeals, multi- 
ply costs. Adjournment after adjourn- 
ment, vexation after vexation, business 
neglected, patience exhausted, years 
wasted, and on both sides the last dollar 
spent, the cats have interlocked their paws, 
clashed each other's teeth, opened each 
other's jaws, and gulped down each other's 
all! Extermination more complete than 
that of Kilkenny. 

Two women slander each other. "You 
are a miserable creature!" says one. 
''You're another!" is the reply. Each one 
hauls out to public gaze all the frailties of 
her antagonist. They malign each other's 
hats as shocking, each other's hair as false, 
each other's teeth as bad specimens of den- 
tistry. While Betsy is going up Fourth 



30 Crumbs Szvept Up. 

Street to denounce Hannah, Hannah is 
going down Fifth Street slashing Betsy. 
Oh! they do hate each other with a reHsh! 
If they should happen to come into phy- 
sical encounter, the whole field of conflict 
would be strewn with chignons, frizettes, 
switches, pads, bustles, chests that had 
ceased to heave, false calves, Marie An- 
toinette slippers, and French heels. These 
two cats meet on cross-streets, and their 
eyes flare, and there is a sudden dash, and 
the fur flies, and down the hill of respect- 
ability they roll together, over and over 
and over, covered with dirt and slush — 
now one on the top, now the other, now 
neither, for they have both vanished. 
Exeunt cats of Kilkenny! 

A church is divided into two parties. 
What one likes the other abhors. They 
feel it their duty to stick to it. In the devo- 
tional meeting they pray at each other's in^ 
consistencies, hoping that the prayer will 
go to heaven, but by the way of Deacon 
Rafiferty's pew, just stopping a moment to 
give him a shaking. If one wants the 
church built on the hill, the other wants it 
down by the saw-mill. If one wants the 
minister to avoid politics, the other would 
like to have him get up on the side of the 
pulpit and give three cheers for John 
Brown's knapsack, which is said to be still 
''strapped upon his back!" When Elder 



The Kilkenny Cats. 31 

Bangs sits still in prayer, Elder Crank 
stands up to show his contempt for such 
behavior. If one puts ten cents on the 
plate, the other throws a dollar on the top 
of it, to show his abhorrence of such par- 
simony. The whole church catches the 
quarrelsome spirit, and begins to go down. 
One-half of the choir eats up the other half. 
The pew devours the pulpit, and the pulpit 
swallows the pew. The session takes down 
the trustees, and the trustees masticate the 
session. The Sunday school and sewing- 
society show their teeth, and run out their 
claws, and get their backs up, and spit fire. 
And church councils assemble to stop the 
quarrel, and cry "Scat! scat!" to the in- 
famous howlers. But the claws go on 
with their work, till there stands the old 
church by the wayside, windowless and for- 
saken! Nothing more nor less than a 
monument to the memory of the dead ec- 
clesiastical cats of Kilkenny! 

But why should I libel the cats by plac- 
ing them in such disagreeable company? 
Old Tabby, the Maltese, with a blue rib- 
bon about his neck, and a white spot on his 
face, ever since the day his mother took 
him tenderly by the nape of the neck and 
lifted him out of the ash-barrel, the place of 
his nativity, has been a pet of your family, 
lie never had anything but a velvet paw 
for the children that mauled him, lifting 



32 Crumbs Swept Up. 

him by the ears, or pulHng him by the tail 
backward up and down the nursery. He 
ate out of the same saucer with the chil- 
dren, not waiting for a spoon. And when 
a pair of little feet stopped short in the 
journey of life, and the white lids covered 
the eyes like untimely snow on violets, and 
you went in one rainy day to look at the 
little bed on which the flaxen curls once 
lay, you found old Tabby curled up on the 
pillow; and he looked up as if he knew what 
was the matter. 

Old Tabby is almost blind now. Mi 
may canter across the floor without di 
turbing his slumber. Many of the banc 
that stroked him are still now, and h 
knows it. After a while his own time wil^ 
come, and, with all four paws stretched out 
stiff and cold, you will find him some 
morning dead on the door-mat. Then th' 
children will come and wrap him up, and 
carry him out, and dig a hole, and bury 
him with a Sunday-school hymn, putting 
up a board at his head, with his epitaph 
written in lead-pencil: 

Here lies old Tabby! 

Requies — cat in pace! 

Died in the tenth year of his age, and 

mourned by the whole family. 

This head-board is erected by his surviving 

friends Madge and Charlie! 



Mi7iisters' Stmslmie. 33 

MINISTERS' SUNSHINE. 

So much has been written of the hard- 
ships of clergymen, small salaries, unrea- 
sonable churches, mean committees, and 
impudent parishioners, that parents seek- 
ing for their children's happiness are not 
wont to desire them to enter the sacred 
calling. Indeed, the story of empty bread- 
trays and cheerless parsonages has not half 
been told. But there is another side to the 
picture. Ministers' wives are not all vix- 
"ens, nor their children scapegraces. Pas- 
tors do not always step on thorns and 
preach to empty benches. The parish sew- 
ing-society does not always roast their pas- 
tor over the slow fires of tittle-tattle. 
There is no inevitable connection between 
the gospel and bronchitis. As far as we 
have observed, the brightest sunshine is 
ministers' sunshine. They have access to 
refined circles, means to give a good edu- 
cation to their children, friends to stand by 
them in every perplexity, and through the 
branches that drop occasional shadows on 
their way sifts the golden light of great 
enjoyment. 

It was about six o'clock of a June after- 
noon, the sun striking aslant upon the 
river, when the young minister and his 
bride were riding toward their new home. 
The air was bewitched with fragrance of 



34 Crumbs Swept Up, 

field and garden, and a-hum with bees out 
honey-making. The lengthening shadows 
did not fall on the road the twain passed; 
at least, they saw none. The leaves shook 
out a welcome, and as the carriage rum- 
bled across the bridge in front of the house 
at which they were for a few days to tarry, 
it seemed as if hoof and wheel understood 
the transport of the hour. The weeks of 
bridal congratulation had ended, and here 
they were at the door of the good deacon 
who would entertain them. The village 
was all astir that evening. As far as 
politeness would allow, there was peering 
from the doors, and looking through the 
blinds, for everybody would see the new 
minister's wife; and children, swinging on 
the gate, rushed in the back way to cry out, 
''They are coming!" 

The minister and his bride alighted amid 
hearty welcomes, for the flock had been for 
a long while without a shepherd, and all 
imagined something of the embarrassment 
of a young man with the ink hardly dry on 
his parchment of licensure, and a girl just 
entering into the responsibility of a clergy- 
man's wife. 

After tea, some of the parishioners came 
in. Old Mr. Bromlette stepped up to offer a 
greeting. He owned a large estate, had 
been born in high life, was a genuine aris- 
tocrat, and had in his possession silver 



Ministers^ Sunshine. 35 

plate which his father used in entertaining 
General Washington. He had no preten- 
sion or pomp of manner, but showed by 
his walk and his conversation that he had 
always moved in polite circles. He was a 
fat man, and wiped the perspiration from 
his brow — sweat started not more by his 
walk than the excitement of the occasion — 
and said, "Hot night, dominie!" He be- 
gan the conversation by asking the min- 
ister who his father was, and who his 
grandfather; and when he found that there 
was in the ancestral line of the minister a 
dignitary, seemed delighted, and said, ''I 
knew him well. Danced forty years ago 
with his daughter at Saratoga." He added, 
"I think we will be able to make you com- 
fortable here. We have in our village some 
families of highly respectable descent. 
Here is our friend over the way; his grand- 
father was wounded at Monmouth. He 
would have called in to-night, but he is in 
the city at a banquet given in honor of one 
of the English lords. Let me see; what's 
his name?" At this point the door opened, 
and the servant looked in and said, ''Mr. 
Bromlette, your carriage is waiting." 
*'Good-night, dominie!" said the old gen- 
tleman; "I hope to see you at my house to- 
morrow. The Governor will dine with us, 
and about two o'clock my carriage will call 
for vou. You look tired. Better retire 



36 Crumbs Swept Up. 

early. Good-night, ladies and gentlemen!" 
MacMillan the Scotchman now entered 
into conversation. He was brawny and 
blunt. Looked dead in earnest. Seldom 
saw anything to laugh at. He was of the 
cast-iron make, and if he had cared much 
about family blood, could no doubt have 
traced it back to Drumclog or Bothwell 
Bridge. He said, *'I come in to-night to 
welcome you as a minister of the New 
Covenant. Do not know much about you. 
Wh ■ catechism did you stoody?" ''West- 
minster!" replied the clergyman. "Praise 
God for that!" said the Scotchman. ''I 
think you must belong to the good old 
orthodox, out-and-out Calvinistic school. 
I must be going home, for it is nine 
o'clock, and I never allow the children to 
go to bed until I have sung with them a 
Psalm of David. Do not like to suggest, 
but if parfactly convainiant, give us next 
Sabbath a solid sermon about the eternal 
decrees. Suppose you have read 'McCosh 
on the Divine Government.' Do not think 
anything surpasses that, unless it be 'Ed- 
wards on the Will.' Good-night!" he said, 
as he picked up his hat, which he persisted 
in setting on the floor beside him. "Hope 
we will meet often in this world, and in 
the next; we most certainly will if we have 
been elected. Good-night! I will stand by 
you as long as I find you contending earn- 



Ministers' Sunshine. 37 

estly for the faith once deHvered to the 
saints." And without bowing to the rest 
he started through the hall, and began to 
rattle the front door, and shouted, "Here, 
somebody! open this door! Hope we shall 
not have as much trouble in getting open 
the door of heaven!" 

Mrs. Durbin was present that evening. 
She was always present when pleasant 
words were to be uttered, or kind deeds 
done. She was any minister's blessing. If 
the pastor had a cough, she would come 
right into his house, only half knocking, 
and in the kitchen, over the hot stove, she 
would stand mixing all sorts of pleasant 
things to take. From her table often came 
in a plate of biscuit, or a bowl of berries 
already sugared. If the pulpit must be up- 
holstered, she was head of the committee. 
If money was to be raised for a musical in- 
strument, she begged it, no man saying 
nay, even if he could ill afiford to contrib- 
ute. Everybody liked her. Everybody 
blessed her. She stepped quick; had a 
laugh that was catching; knew all the sick; 
had her pocket full of nuts and picture- 
books. When she went through the 
poorer parts of the village, the little raga- 
muffins, white and black, would come out 
and say, "Here comes Mrs. Durbin!" 

But do not fall in love with Mrs. Durbin, 
for she was married. Her husband was a 



38 Crumbs Swept Up. 

man of the world, took things easy, let his 
wife go to church as much as she desired, 
if she would not bother him with her reli- 
gion, gave her as much money as she 
wanted, but teased her unmercifully about 
the poor urchins who followed her in the 
street, and used to say, "My dear! have 
you found out any new Lazarus? I am 
afraid you will get the small-pox if you 
don't stop carrying victuals into those nig- 
ger shanties!" 

Mrs. Durbin talked rapidly that night, 
but mostly to the pastor's wife. Was over- 
heard to be laying plans for a ride to the 
Falls. Hoped that the minister would not 
work too hard at the start. Told him that 
after he got rested he might go and visit a 
family near by who were greatly distressed, 
and wanted a minister to pray with them. 
As she rose to go, she said, "If you need 
anything at all, be at perfect liberty to 
send." Her husband arose at the same 
time. He had not said a word, and felt a 
little awkward in the presence of so many 
church-people. But he came up and took 
the minister's hand, and said, "Call and see 
us! I am not a church-man, as you will 
soon find out. I hardly ever go to church, 
except on Thanksgiving Days, or now and 
then when the notion takes me. Still, I 
have a good horse. Anybody can drive 
him, and he is any time at your disposal. 



Ministers' Sunshine, 39 

All you have to do is just to get in and 
take up the ribbons. My wife takes care 
of the religion, and I mind the horses. She 
has what our college-bred Joe calls the 
^Suaviter in modo,' and I have the 'Fortiter 
in re.' Good-by! Take care of yourself!" 

Elder Lucas was there; a man of fifty. 
His great characteristic was, that he never 
said anything, but always acted. Never 
exhorted or prayed in public : only listened. 
One time at the church-meeting called for 
the purpose of increasing the minister's 
salary, where Robert Cruikshank spoke 
four times in favor of the project, and after- 
ward subscribed one dollar, Lucas was 
still, but subscribed fifty dollars. On the 
evening of which we chiefly write, he sat 
silently looking at his new pastor. Those 
who thought he felt nothing were greatly 
mistaken. He was all kindness and love. 
Much of the time there were emotional 
tears in his eyes, but few saw them, for he 
had a sly habit of looking the other way 
till they dried up, or if they continued ta 
run he would rub his handkerchief across, 
his nose, allowing it accidentally to slip i:p 
to the corner of his eyes, and so nothing of 
emotion was suspected. He never offered 
to do anything, but always did it. He 
never promised to send a carriage to take 
his minister a riding, but often sent it. 
Never gave notice two weeks before of an 



40 Crumbs Swept Up. 

intended barrel of flour, but it was, with- 
out any warning, rolled into the back entry. 
He did not some day in front of the church, 
in the presence of half the congregation, 
tell the minister that he meant to give him 
a suit of clothes, but slyly found out who 
was the clergyman's tailor, and then by a 
former measurement had the garments 
made and sent up on Saturday night with 
his compliments, for two weeks keeping 
out of the way for fear the minister would 
thank him. 

When Elder Lucas left that evening, he 
came up, and without saying a word, gave 
the minister a quick shake of the hand, and 
over forehead, cheek, and hands of the 
bashful man passed a succession of blushes. 

But the life of the little company that 
night was Harry Bronson. Probably in no 
other man was there ever compressed more 
vivacity of nature. He was a wonderful 
compound of mirthfulness and piety. Old 
men always took his hand with affection, and 
children ran wild when they saw him. On 
Sunday he prayed like a minister, but on 
Monday, among the boys, he could jump 
the highest, run the swiftest, shout the 
loudest, bat the truest, and turn somer- 
sault the easiest. Indeed, there were in 
the church two or three awful-visaged peo- 
ple who thought that Harry Bronson ought 
to be disciplined, and that sanctification 



Mmisiers' Sicnshine. 41 

was never accompanied by kicking up of 
the heels. They remonstrated with him, 
but before he got out of sight, and while 
they were yet praying for the good effect 
of their admonition, he put his hand on the 
top of the fence, and, without touching, 
leaped over, not because there was any 
need of crossing the fence, for, showing 
that he was actuated by nothing but world- 
liness and frivolity, he put his hand on the 
top of the rail and leaped back again. If 
there was anything funny, he was sure to 
see it, and had a way of striking attitudes, 
and imitating peculiar intonations, and 
walked sometimes on his toes, and some- 
times on his heels, till one evening at 
church, one of the brethren with a religion 
made up of equal portions of sour-krout, 
mustard, and red pepper, prayed right at 
him, saying, "If there is any brother pres- 
ent who does not walk as he should, we 
pray thee that thou wouldst do with him as 
thou didst with Sennacherib of old, and 
put a hook in his nose and turn him back!" 
To which prayer Harry Bronson re- 
sponded, ''Amen!" never supposing that 
the hook was meant for his own nose. The 
reprimanding brother finding his prayer 
ineffectual, and that the Lord was unwill- 
ing to take Harry in His hands, resolved to 
attend to the case himself, and the second 
time proposed to undertake the work of 



42 Crumbs Swept Up. 

admonition, not in beseeching terms as 
before, but with a fiery indignation that 
would either be, as he expressed it, a savor 
of Hfe unto Ufe, or of death unto death. 
But entering Harry Bronson's house that 
evening, he found him on his hands and 
knees playing "Bear" with his children, 
and cutting such a ludicrous figure, that 
the lachrymose elder for once lost his 
gravity, and joined in the merriment with 
such a full gush of laughter that he did not 
feel it would be consistent to undertake his 
mission, since the facetious Harry might 
turn on him and say, ''Physician! heal thy- 
self!" 

That night at the minister's welcome 
Harry was in full glee. The first grasp he 
gave on entering the room, and the words 
of greeting that he offered, and the whole- 
souled, intense manner with which he con- 
fronted the young clergyman, showed him 
to be one of those earnest, active, intelli- 
gent, loving and lovable Christian men, 
who is a treasure to any pastor. 

He had a stor}^ for every turn of the 
evening's entertainment, and took all the 
spare room in the parlor to tell it. The 
gravest men in the party would take a joke 
from him. When MacMillan asked the 
minister about his choice of catechism, 
Harry ventured the opinion that he 
thought "Brown's Shorter" good enough 



Ministers' Sunshine, 43 

for anybody. "Ah!" said MacMillan, 
"Harry, you rogue, stop that joking!" 
When Mr. Bromlette offered his carriage, 
Bronson offered to loan a wheel-barrow. 
He asked Mrs. Durbin if she wanted any 
more combs or castile soap for her mis- 
sion on Dirt Alley. He almost drew into 
conversation the silent Mr. Lucas, asking 
a strange question, and because Lucas, 
through embarrassment, made no response, 
saying, "Silence gives consent!" Was full 
of narratives about weddings, and general 
trainings, and parish-meetings. Stayed till 
all the rest were gone, for he never was 
talked out. 

"Well, well!" said two of the party that 
night as they shut the front door; "we will 
have to tell Harry Bronson to serve God 
in his own way." I guess there may some- 
times be as much religion in laughing as 
in crying. We cannot make such a man as 
that keep step to a "Dead March." I 
think the dew of grace may fall just as cer- 
tainly on a grotesque cactus as a precise 
primrose. Indeed, the jubilant palm-tree 
bears fruit, while the weeping-willow 
throws its worthless catkins into the brook. 

The first Sunday came. The congrega- 
tion gathered early. The brown-stone 
church was a beautiful structure, within 
and without. An adjacent quarry had fur- 
nished the material, and the architect and 



44 Crumbs Swept Up. 

builder, who were men of taste, had not 
been interfered with. A few creeping vines 
had been planted at the front and side, and 
a white rose-bush stood at the door, fling- 
ing Its fragrance across the yard. Many 
had gone in and taken their seats, but 
others had stayed at the door to watch the 
coming of the new minister and his bride. 
She is gone now, and it is no flattery to 
write that she was fair to look upon, deli- 
cate in structure of body, eye large and 
blue, hair in which was folded the shadows 
of midnight, erect carriage, but quite small. 
She was such a one as you could pick up 
and carry over a stream with one arm. She 
had a sweet voice, and had stood several 
years in the choir of the city churches, and 
had withal a magic of presence that had 
turned all whom she ever met into warm 
personal admirers. Her hand trembled on 
her husband's arm as that day they went 
up the steps of the meeting-house, gazed at 
intently by young and old. The pastor 
looked paler even than was his wont. His 
voice quavered in reading the hymn, and 
he looked confused in making the publica- 
tions. That day, a mother had brought 
her child for baptism, and for the first time 
he officiated in that ceremony. Had hard 
work to remember the words, and knew 
not what to do next. When he came to 
preach, in his excitement he could not find 



Ministers* Sunshine. 45 

his sermon. It had fallen back of the sofa. 
Looked up and down, and forward and 
backward. Fished it out at last, just in 
time to come up, flushed and hot, to read 
the text. Made a very feeble attempt at 
preaching. But all were ready to hear his 
words. The young sympathized with him, 
for he was young. And the old looked on 
him with a sort of paternal indulgence. At 
the few words in which he commended 
himself and his to their sympathy and care, 
they broke forth into weeping. And at the 
foot of the pulpit, at the close of service, 
the people gathered, poor and rich, to 
offer their right hand. 

MacMillan the Scotchman said, ''Young 
man! that's the right doctrine; the same 
that Dr. Duncan taught me forty years ago 
at the kirk in the glen!" Mr. Bromlette 
came up, and introduced to the young min- 
ister a young man who was a baronet, and 
a lady who was by marriage somehow re- 
lated to the Astors. Harry Bronson took 
his pastor by the hand, and said. 'That 
sermon went right to the spot. Glad you 
found it. Was afraid you would never fish 
it out from behind that sofa. When I saw 
you on all-fours, looking up, thought I 
should burst." Lucas, with his eyes red as 
a half-hour of crying could make them, 
took the minister's hand, but said nothing, 
only looked more thanks and kindness than 



46 Crumbs Swept I p. 

words could have expressed. Mr. Durbin 
said, ''How are you? Broke in on my rule 
to-day and came to church. Little curious, 
you see. Did not believe it quite all, but 
that will do. Glad you gave it to those 
Christians. Saw them wince under it!" 
Mrs. Durbin was meanwhile employed in 
introducing the bride to the people at the 
door, who were a little backward. Begged 
them to come up. Drew up an array of 
four or five children that she had clothed 
and brought out of the shanties to attend 
church. Said, ''This is Bridget Maloy, and 
that Ellen Haggerty. Good girls they are, 
too, and like to come to church!" 

For a long while the hand-shakings con- 
tinued, and some who could not get confi- 
dence even to wait at the door, stretched 
their hands out from the covered wagon, 
and gave a pleasant "How do you do?" or 
"God bless you," till the minister and his 
wife agreed that their happiness was full, 
and went home, saying, "This, indeed, is 
Ministers' Sunshine!" 

The parsonage was only a little distance 
off, but the pastor had nothing with which 
to furnish it. The grass was long, and 
needed to be cut, and the weeds were cov- 
ering the garden. On Monday morning 
the pastor and his wife were saying what a 
pity it was that they were not able to take 
immediate possession. They could be so 



Ministers' Sunshine. 47 

happy in such a cosy place. Never mind. 
They would out of the first year's salary 
save enough to warrant going to house- 
keeping. 

That afternoon the sewing-society met. 
That society never disgraced itself with 
gossip. They were good women, and met 
together, sometimes to sew for the desti- 
tute of the village, and sometimes to send 
garments to the suffering home mission- 
aries. For two hours their needles would 
fly, and then off for home, better for their 
philanthropic labors. But that afternoon 
the ladies stood round the room in knots, 
a-whispering. Could it be that the society 
was losing its good name, and was becom- 
ing a school of scandal? That could not 
be, for Mrs. Durbin seemed the most active 
in the company, and Mrs. Durbin was al- 
ways right. 

Next morning, while the minister and 
his wife were talking over this secrecy of 
conversation at the sewing-circle, Harry 
Bronson came in and asked the young 
pastor if he was not weary with last Sun- 
day's work. He answered, ''No!" "Well," 
suggested Harry, 'T think you had better 
take a few days' rest anyhow. Go off and 
see your friends. My carriage will, in 
about an hour, go to the cars and 1 will 
meet you on Saturday night. Think it will 
do you both good." 



48 Crumbs Swept Up. 

"Well, well!" said the minister, while 
aside consulting with his wife, "what does 
this mean? Are they tired of us so soon? 
Is this any result of yesterday's whisper- 
ing? But they make the suggestion, and I 
shall take it." So that Tuesday evening 
found them walking the streets of the 
neighboring city, wondering what all this 
meant. Saturday came, and on the arrival 
of the afternoon train Harry Bronson was 
ready to meet the young parson and his 
wife. They rode up to the place of their 
previous entertainment. After tea, Bron- 
son said, "We have been making a little 
alteration at the parsonage since you were 
gone." "Have you?" exclaimed the min- 
ister. "Come! my dear! let us go up and 
see!" As they passed up the steps of the 
old parsonage, the roses and the lilacs on 
either side swung in the evening air. The 
river in front glowed under the long row of 
willows, and parties of villagers in white 
passed by in the rocking-boat, singing 
"Life on the ocean wave." It was just be- 
fore sunset, and what with the perfume, 
and the roseate clouds, and the rustling of 
the maples, and the romance of a thousand 
dawning expectations — it was an evening 
never to be forgotten. Its flowers will 
never close. Its clouds will never melt. 
Its waters will never lose their sheen. Its 
aroma will never fioat away. 



Ministers' Sunshine. 49 

The key was thrust into the door and it 
swung open. "What does this mean?" they 
both cried out at the same time. "Who 
put down this carpet, and set here these 
chairs, and hung this hall-lamp?" They 
stood as if transfixed. It was no shabby 
carpet, but one that showed that many dol- 
lars had been expended, and much taste 
employed, and much effort exerted. They 
opened the parlor-door, and there they all 
stood — sofa, and whatnot, and chair, and 
stand, and mantel-ornament, and picture. 
They w^ent up stairs, and every room was 
furnished; beds with beautiful white coun- 
terpanes, and vases filled with flowers, and 
walls hung with engravings. Everything 
complete. 

These surprised people came down stairs 
to the pantry. Found boxes of sugar, bags 
of salt, cans of preserves, packages of 
spices, bins of flour, loaves of bread. Went 
to the basement, and found pails, baskets, 
dippers, cups, saucers, plates, forks, knives, 
spoons, strainers, bowls, pitchers, tubs, and 
a huge stove filled with fuel, and a lucifer- 
match lying on the lid; so that all the 
young married pair would have to do in 
going to housekeeping, would be to strike 
the match and apply it to the shavings. In 
the study, adorned with lounge and flow- 
ers, and on table, covered with bright 
green baize, lay an envelope enclosing a 



50 Crumbs Swept Up. 

card, on which was written, "Please accept 
from a few friends." 

Had Aladdin been around with his lamp? 
Was this a vision such as comes to one 
about half awake on a sunshiny morning? 
They sat down, weak and tearful from sur- 
prise, thanked God, blessed Mrs. Durbin, 
knew that Mr. Bromlette's purse had been 
busy, felt that silent Mr. Lucas had at last 
spoken, realized that Harry Bronson had 
been perpetrating a practical joke, were 
certain that MacMillan had at last been 
brought to believe a little in "works," 
and exclaimed, "Verily, this is Ministers' 
Sunshine!" and as the slanting rays of the 
setting day struck the porcelain pitcher, 
and printed another figure on the carpet, 
and threw its gold on the cushion of the 
easy-chair, it seemed as if everything 
within, and everything around, and every- 
thing above responded, "Ministers' Sun- 
shine!" 

The fact was, that during the absence of 
the new pastor that week, the whole vil- 
lage had been topsy-turvy with excitement. 
People standing together in knots, others 
running in and out of doors; the hunting 
up of measuring-rods; the running around 
of committees with everything to do, and 
so little time in which to do it. Somebody 
had proposed a very cheap furnishing of 
the house, but Mr. Bromlette said, "This 



Miiiisters' Sunshine, 51 

will never do. How can we prosper, if 
living in fine houses ourselves, we let our 
minister go half cared for? The sheep shall 
not be better off than the shepherd!" and 
down went his name on the subscription 
with a liberal sum. 

MacMillan said, "I am in favor of taking 
care of the Lord's anointed. And this 
young minister of the everlasting gospel 
hinted that he believed in the perseverance 
of the saints and other cardinal doctrines, 
and you may put me down for so much, 
and that is twice what I can afford to give, 
but we must have faith, and make sacrifices 
for the kingdom of God's sake." 

While others had this suggestion about 
the window shades, and that one a prefer- 
ence about the figure of the carpets, and 
another one said he would have nothing to 
do with it unless it were thus and so, quiet 
Mr. Lucas said nothing, and some of the 
people feared he would not help in the en- 
terprise. But when the subscription-paper 
was handed him, he looked it over, and 
thought for a minute or two, and then set 
down a sum that was about twice as much 
as any of the other contributions. Worldly 
Mr. Durbin said at the start, 'T will give 
nothing. There is no use of making such 
a fuss over a minister. You will spoil him 
at the start. Let him fight his own way up, 
as the rest of us have had to do. Delia! (that 



52 Crumbs Swept Up. 

was his wife's name), nobody furnished our 
house when we started." But Mrs. Durbin, 
as was expected, stood in the front of the 
enterprise. If there was a stingy fellow to 
be approached, she was sent to get the 
money out of him, and always succeeded. 
She had been so used to begging for the 
poor of the back street, that when any of 
the farmers found her coming up the lane, 
they would shout, ''Well, Mrs. Durbin, 
how much will satisfy you to-day?" She 
was on the committee that selected the car- 
pets. While others were waiting for the 
men to come and hang up the window- 
shades, she mounted a table and hung four 
of them. Some of the hardest workers in 
the undertaking were ready to do any- 
thing but tack down carpets. "Well," she 
said, ''that is just what I am willing to do;" 
and so down she went pulling until red in 
the face to make the breadths match, and 
pounding her finger till the blood started 
under the nail, in trying to make a crooked 
tack do its duty. One evening her husband 
drove up in front of the parsonage with a 
handsome book-case. Said he had come 
across it, and had bought it to please his 
wife, not because he approved of all this 
fuss over a minister, who might turn out 
well, and might not. The next morning 
there came three tons of coal that he had 
ordered to be put in the cellar of the par- 



Mi7iisters' Sunshine, 53 

sonage. And though Durbin never ac- 
knowledged to his wife any satisfaction in 
the movement, he every night asked all 
about how affairs were getting on, and it 
was found at last that he had been among 
the most liberal. 

Harry Bronson had been all around dur- 
ing the week. He had a cheerful word for 
every perplexity. Put his hand deep down 
in his own pocket. Cracked jokes over the 
cracked crockery. Sent up some pictures, 
such as "The Sleigh-riding Party," "Ball 
Playing," and "Boys Coasting." Knocked 
off Lucas's hat, and pretended to know 
nothing about it. Slipped on purpose, and 
tumbled into the lap of the committee. 
Went up stairs three steps at a time, and 
came down astride the banisters. At his 
antics some smiled, some smirked, some 
tittered, some chuckled, some laughed 
through the nose, some shouted outright, 
and all that week Harry Bronson kept the 
parsonage roaring with laughter. Yet 
once in a while you would find him seated 
in the corner, talking with some old mother 
in Israel, who was telling him all her griefs, 
and he offering the consolations of religion. 
"Just look at Bronson!" said some one. 
"What a strange conglomeration! There 
he is crying with that old lady in a corner. 
You would not think he had ever smiled. 
This truly is weeping with those who weep, 



54 Cru7fibs Swept Up. 

and laughing with those who laugh. Bron- 
son seems to carry in his heart all the joys 
and griefs of this village." 

It was five o'clock of Saturday afternoon, 
one hour before the minister was expected, 
that the work was completed, entry swept 
out, the pieces of string picked up, shades 
drawn down, and the door of the parson- 
age locked. As these church-workers went 
down the street, their backs ached, and 
their fingers were sore, but their hearts 
were light, and their countenances happy, 
and every step of the way from the parson- 
age door to their own gate they saw scat- 
tered on the graveled sidewalk, and yard- 
grass, and door-step, broad flecks of Min- 
isters' Sunshine! 

But two or three days had passed, and 
the young married couple took possession 
of their new house. It was afternoon, and 
the tea-table was to be spread for the first 
time. It seemed as if every garden in the 
village had sent its greeting to that tea- 
table. Bouquets from one, and strawber- 
ries from another, and radishes, and bread, 
and cake, and grass-butter with figure of 
wheat-sheaf printed on it. The silver all 
new, that which the committee had left 
added to the bridal presents. Only two 
sat at the table, yet the room seemed 
crowded with emotions, such as attend only 
upon the first meal of a newly married 



Ministers^ Sunshme. 55 

couple, when beginning to keep house. 
The past sent up to that table a thousand 
tender memories, and the future hovered 
with wings of amber and gold. That bread- 
breaking partook somewhat of the solem- 
nity of a sacrament. There was little talk 
and much silence. They lingered long at 
the table, spoke of the crowning of so many 
anticipations, and laid out plans for the 
great future. The sun had not yet set. The 
caster glistened in it. The glasses glowed 
in the red light. It gave a roseate tinge to 
the knives, and trembled across the cake- 
basket, as the leaves at the window flut- 
tered in the evening air; and the twain con- 
tinued to sit there, until the sun had drop- 
ped to the very verge of the horizon, and 
with nothing to intercept its blaze, it 
poured in the open windows, till from ceil- 
ing to floor and from wall to wall the room 
was flooded with Ministers' Sunshine. 

A year passed on, and the first cloud 
hovered over the parsonage. It was a very 
dark cloud. It filled the air, and with its 
long black folds seemed to sweep the eaves 
of the parsonage. Yet it parted, and 
through it fell as bright a light as ever 
gilded a hearthstone. The next day all 
sorts of packages arrived; little socks, with 
a verse of poetry stuck in each one of them 
— socks about large enough for a small 
kitten; and a comb with which you might 



56 Crumbs Swept Up. 

imagine Tom Thumb's wife would comb 
his hair for him. Mrs. Durbin was there — ■ 
indeed had been there for the last twenty- 
four hours. Mr. Bromlette sent up his 
coachman to make inquiries. MacMillan 
called to express his hope that it was a child 
of the "Covenant." Lucas came up the 
door-step to of^er his congratulation, but 
had not courage to rattle the knocker, and 
so went away, but stopped at the store to 
order up a box of farina. Harry Bronson 
smiled all the way to the parsonage, and 
smiled all the way back. Meanwhile the 
light within the house every moment grew 
brighter. The parson hardly dared to 
touch the little delicate thing for fear he 
would break it; and walked around with it 
upon a pillow, wondering what it would do 
next, starting at every sneeze or cry, for 
fear he had done some irreparable damage ; 
wondering if its foot was set on right, and 
if with that peculiar formation of the head 
it would ever know anything, and if in- 
fantile eyes always looked like those. The 
wonder grew, till one day Durbin, out of 
regard for his wife, was invited to see the 
little stranger, when he declared he had 
during his life seen fifty just like it, and 
said, "Do you think that worth raising, 
eh?" 

All came to see it, and just wanted to 
feel the weight of it. The little girls of the 



Ministers' Sunshine, 57 

neighborhood must take off its socks to ex- 
amine the dimples on its fat feet. And, 
although not old enough to appreciate it, 
there came directed to the baby, rings and 
rattles, and pins, and bracelets, and gold 
pieces with a string through, to hang about 
the neck, and spoons for pap, and things 
the use of which the parson could not 
imagine. The ladies said it looked like its 
father, and the gentlemen exclaimed, "How 
much it resembles its mother!" All sorts 
of names were proposed, some from 
novels, and some from Scripture. Mac- 
Millan thought it ought to be called 
Deborah or Patience. Mr. Bromlette 
wished it called Eugenia Van Courtlandt. 
Mrs. Durbin thought it would be nice to 
name it Grace. Harry Bronson thought it 
might be styled Humpsy Dumpsy. A 
young gentleman suggested Felicia, and a 
young lady thought it might be Angelina. 
When Lucas was asked what he had to 
propose, he blushed, and after a somewhat 
protracted silence, answered, "Call it what 
you like. Please yourselves and you please 
me." All of the names were tried in turn, 
but none of them were good enough. So a 
temporary name must be selected, one that 
might do till the day of the christening. 
The first day the pet was carried out was a 
very bright day, the sun was high up, and 
as the neighbors rushed out to the nurse, 



58 Crumbs Swept Up. 

and lifted the veil that kept off the glare of 
light, they all thought it well to call it the 
Ministers' Sunshine. 

And so the days and the months and the 
years flew by. If a cloud came up, as on 
the day mentioned, there was a Hand be- 
hind it to lift the heavy folds. If there 
were a storm, it only made the shrubs 
sweeter, and the fields greener. If a winter 
night was filled with rain and tempest, the 
next morning all the trees stood up in 
burnished mail of ice, casting their crowns 
at the feet of the sun, and surrendering 
their gleaming swords to the conqueror. 
If the trees lost their blossoms, it was to 
put on the mellowness of fruit; and when 
the fruit was scattered, autumnal glories 
set up in the tops their flaming torches. 
And when the leaves fell it was only 
through death to come singing in the next 
spring-time, when the mellow horn of the 
south-wind sounded the resurrection. If 
in the chill April a snow-bank lingered in 
the yard, they were apt to find a crocus at 
the foot of it. If an early frost touched the 
corn, that same frost unlocked the burr of 
the chestnut, and poured richer blood into 
the veins of the Catawba. When the moon 
set, the stars came out to worship, and 
counted their golden beads in the Cathe- 
dral of the Infinite. 

On the petunias that all over the knoll 



Our First Boots, 59 

shed their blood for the glory of the gar- 
den; on the honeysuckle where birds 
rested, and from which fountains of odor 
tossed their spray; on the river, where by 
day the barge floated, and by night the 
moon-tipped oars came up tangled with the 
tinkling jewels of the deep; at eventide in 
the garden, where God walked in the cool 
of the day; by the minister's hearth, where 
the child watched the fall of the embers, 
and congenial spirits talked, and minister- 
ing angels hovered, and in the sounds of 
the night-fall there floated the voices of 
bright immortals, bidding the two, ''Come 
up higher!" — there was calm, clear, 
Ministers' Sunshine! 



•)o(- 



OUR FIRST BOOTS. 

We have seen many days of joy, but we 
remember no such exhilarations as that felt 
by us on the day when we mounted our 
first pair of boots. To appreciate such an 
era in life, we must needs have been 
brought up in the country. Boys in town 
come to this crisis before they can appre- 
ciate the height and depth of such an ac- 
quisition. The boot period is the dividing 
line between babyhood and boyhood. Be- 
fore the boots, one is trampled upon by 



6o Crumbs Swept Up. 

comrades, and stuck with pins, and we 
walk with an air of apology for the fact 
that we were born at all. Robust school- 
fellows strike us across the cheek, and 
when we turn toward them, they cry, "Who 
are you looking at?" or what is worse than 
any possible insult, wx have somebody 
chuck us under the chin, and call us 
'*Bub." Before the crisis of boots, the 
country boy carries no handkerchief. This 
keeps him in a state of constant humilia- 
tion. Whatever crisis may come in the 
boy's history — no handkerchief. This is 
the very unpopular period of snufHes. 

But at last the age of boots dawns upon a 
boy. Henceforth, instead of always having 
to get out of the way, he will make others 
g'^t out of his way. He will sometimes get 
the Scripture lesson confused, and when 
smitten on the right cheek, will turn and 
give it to his opponent on the left cheek 
also. Indeed, we do not think there is any 
regulation, human or divine, demanding 
that a boy submit to the school-bully. I 
think we should teach our boy to avoid all 
quarrel and strife; but, nevertheless, to take 
care of himself. We remember with deep 
satisfaction how that, after Jim Johnson 
had knocked our hat in the mud, and spit 
in our face, and torn our new coat, we felt 
called upon to vindicate the majesty of our 
new boots. That, however, was before we 



Our First Boots. 6i 

had any idea of ever becoming a minister. 
But when the time spoken of in a boy's Hfe 
comes, look out how you call him "Bub." 
He parts his hair on the side, has the end 
of his white handkerchief sticking out at 
the top of his side-pocket as if it were acci- 
dentally arranged so, has a dignified and 
manly mode of expectoration, and walks 
down the road with long strides, as much 
as to say, ''Clear the track for my boots!" 

We have seen imposing men, but none 
have so thoroughly impressed us as the 
shoemaker, who, with waxy hand, deliv- 
ered into our possession our first pedal 
adornments. As he put the awl through 
the leather, and then inserted the two bris- 
tles into the hole, and drew them through 
it, and then, bending over the lapstone, 
grasped the threads with hard grip, and 
brought them up with a jerk that made the 
shop shake, we said to ourself, ''Here is 
gracefulness for you, and power!" 

It was Sabbath-day when we broke them 
in. Oh! the rapture of that moment when 
we lay hold of the straps at one end, and, 
with our big brother pushing at the other, 
the boot went on! We fear that we got 
but little advantage that day from the ser- 
vices. All the pulpit admonition about 
worldliness and pride struck the toe of our 
boots, and fell back. We trampled under 
our feet all good counsels. We have to 



62 Crumbs Swept Up. 

repent that, while some trust in horses and 
some in chariots, we put too much stress 
upon leather. Though our purchase was 
so tight in the instep that, as soon as we 
got to the woods we went limping on our 
way — what boots it? We felt that in such 
a cause it was noble to suffer. 

For some reason, boots are not what 
they used to be. You pay a big price, and 
you might walk all day without hearing 
once from them; but the original pair of 
which I tell spake out for themselves. No 
one doubted whether you had been to 
church after you had once walked up the 
aisle in company with such leather. It 
was the pure eloquence of calfskin. 

We have seen hunting-boots, and fish- 
ing-boots, and jack-boots, American boots, 
and French boots; but we despair of find- 
ing anything to equal our first pair, which 
had the brightest gloss, the finest heels, 
and the merriest squeak. Alas! they are 
gone! And so is the artist who fashioned 
them. He has laid down his awl. Moons 
shall wax for him no more. He has done 
forever with pegs. But we shall always 
remember how he looked one Saturday 
afternoon, when, the sunflowers in the 
yard, and the cat on the window-sill, he set 
upon his counter our first pair of boots. 
For his sake, may there be peace to all de- 
parted shoemakers! May they go straight 



The Smile of the Sea. 63 

to St. Crispin, that Roman artist in leather, 
remarkable for the fact that when he de- 
clared that a pair of shoes would be done 
by Saturday night, he always kept his 
promise. 



-)o(- 



THE SMILE OF THE SEA. 

We had built up all the stories of sea- 
faring men into one tremendous imagining 
of the ocean. We went on board, ready 
for typhoons and euroclydons. We 
thought the sea a monster, with ships in 
its maw, and hurricanes in its mane. In 
our ten days' voyage, we have seen it in 
various moods, but have been impressed 
with nothing so much as the smile of the 
sea. While we have not found the poetic 
''cradle of the deep," we have concluded 
that the sea is only a vigorous old nurse 
that jolts the child up and down on a hard 
knee, without much reference to how 
much it can endure. 

We cannot forget the brightness of the 
morning in which we came down the bay, 
followed to Sandy Hook by five hundred 
friends, lashing us out to sea with waving 
pocket-handkerchiefs, and pelting us with 



64 Crumbs Swept Up. 

their huzzas. The sun set, and the moon 
took the veil of a nun and went into the 
dark turrets of midnight cloud, and the 
stars dropped their flakes of light into the 
water, and melted hito the blackness; but 
the sunlight of the cheery faces at the 
starting has shone on three thousand miles 
of water. So many friendly hands helped 
steady the ship, and the breath of so many 
voices filled the sails, which, by the help of 
the great screw, are bearing us onward. 

Though a gentleman has pronounced the 
sea one vast dose of ipecac, and though it 
may betray us in the future, we set down 
the sea as one of our best friends. We 
never were treated so well in all our life. 
We have had, since we started, some wild 
tossing, but the waves are swarthy giants, 
and you must expect that their play will 
not be that of kittens, but of a lioness with 
her cubs, of a leviathan with its young. 
When Titans play ball, they throw rocks. 
The heavy surge which rolls the ship while 
I write is probably only the effort of the 
sea to stop laughing. It has been in a 
grand gale, and its sides are heaving yet 
with the uproarious mirthfulness. 

There are physical constitutions that will 
not harmonize with the water; but one-half 
the things that writers record against the 
sea is the result of their own intemperance. 
The sea-air rouses a wolf of an appetite, 



The Smile of the Sea. 65 

and nine-tenths of the passengers turn into 
meat-stuffers. From morn till night, down 
go the avalanches of provender. Invalids, 
on their way to Europe for the cure of dys- 
pepsia, are seen gorging themselves at nine 
o'clock, at twelve, at four, at seven, and at 
ten. I hear men who, at eleven o'clock last 
night, took pigeons, and chickens, and 
claret, and Hock, and Burgundy, and Old 
Tom, and Cheshire cheese, and sardines, 
and anchovies, and grouse, and gravies, 
complaining that they feel miserable this 
morning. Much of the sea-sickness is an 
insurrection of the stomach against too 
great instalments of salmon, and raisins, 
and roast turkey, and nuts, and damson 
pies, and an infinity of pastry. One-half 
of the same dissipation on land would 
necessitate the attendance of the family 
doctor, and two nurses on the side of the 
bed to keep the howling patient from leap- 
ing out of the third-story window. 

Oh, the joy of the sea! The vessel 
bounds like a racer on the *'home-stretch,'^ 
bending into the bit, its sides flanked with 
the foam, and its white mane flying on the 
wild wind. We have dropped the world be- 
hind us. Going to Long Branch, or Sharon 
Springs, our letters come, and the papers, 
but it would be hard for cares to keep up 
with a Cunard steamer. They cannot swim. 



66 Crumbs Swept Up. 

They could not live an hour in such a surf. 
They have been drowned out, and are for- 
gotten. 

On the land, when morning comes, it 
seems to run up from the other side of the 
hills, and, with its face red from climbing, 
stands looking through the pines and 
cedars. On the sea, it comes down from 
God out of heaven on ladders of light to 
bathe in the water, the waves dripping 
from her ringlets and sash of fire, or 
throwing up their white caps to greet her, 
and the sea-gull alights on her brow at 
the glorious baptism. No smoke of factory 
on the clear air. No shuffling of weary 
feet on the glass of the water-pavement; 
but Him of Gennesaret setting His foot in 
the snow of the surf, and stroking the neck 
of the waves as they lick His feet and play 
about Him. 

He who goes to sea with keen apprecia- 
tion of the ludicrous will not be able to 
keep his gravity. We are not conscious of 
having, in any three months of our lives, so 
tested the strength of our buttons as on 
this ten days' trip. We confess our in- 
capacity to see without demonstration of 
merriment the unheard-of postures taken by 
passengers on a rocking ship. Think of 
bashful ladies being violently pitched into 
the arms of the boatswain, and of a man 



The Smile of the Sea. 67 

like myself escorting two elegant ladies 
across the slippery deck, till, with one sud- 
den lurch, we are driven from starboard to 
port, with most unclerical sprawl, in one 
grand crash of crinoline and whiskers, 
chignon catching in overcoat-pocket, and 
our head entangled in the folds of a rigo- 
lette. Imagine the steward emptying a 
bowl of turtle-soup into the lap of a New 
York exquisite; or one not accustomed to 
angling, fishing for herring under an up- 
set dinner-plate. Consider our agitation, 
when in the morning, after waking our 
companion with the snatch o^ some famil- 
iar tunes, we found her diving out of the 
berth head-foremost, to the tune of "Star 
Spangled Banner," and Dundee, with the 
variations. If, in all the ships on the deep, 
there are so many grotesque goings-on as 
in our vessel, we wonder not that this 
morning the sea from New York to Liver- 
pool is shaking its sides with roistering 
merriment. 

But the grandest smile of the sea is, after 
a rough day, in the phosphorescence that 
blazes from horizon to horizon. Some tell 
us it is the spawn of the jelly-fish, and some 
that it is a collection of marine insects; but 
those who say they do not know what it is 
probably come nearest the truth. The 
prow of the vessel breaks it up into two 
great sheaves of light, and the glory keeps 



68 Crumbs Swept Up. 

up a running fire along the beam's-end till 
the mind falls back benumbed, unable lon- 
ger to take in the splendor. In one direc- 
tion, it is like a vast mosaic, and yonder it 
now quivers, the "lightning of the sea." 
Here it is crystal inlaid with jet; or the 
eyes of sea-serpents flashing through the 
hissing waters; or a tall wave robed in 
white, flying, with long trail, toward the 
East; or the tossing up in the palm of the 
ocean a handful of opals, answered by the 
sparkle on one finger of foam; and then 
the long-restrained beauty breaking out 
into a whole sea of fire. On this suspended 
bridge many of the glories of the earth 
and heaven come out to greet each other 
and stand beckoning to ship, and shore, 
and sky, for all the rest of the glories to 
come and join them. Meanwhile, the ves- 
sel plunges its proboscis into the deep, and 
casts carelessly aside into the darkness 
more gems than ever came from Brazil and 
Golconda. Historians think it worth 
recording, that, at an ancient feast, a pearl 
was dissolved in the wine, and drank by a 
royal woman; but a million pearls are dis- 
solved at this phosphorescent banquet of 
the deep, around whose board all nations 
sit drinking. The stars are to drop like 
blasted figs, and the sun is to be snuffed 
out; but when the ocean dies, its spirit will 
arise in white robe of mist, and lie down 



/;;. Stirrups, 69 

before the throne of God, "o sea of glass 
mingled with fire.'' 

N. B. — I hereby reserve the privilege of 
taking back all I have said, if, on my way 
to America, the sea does not behave itself 
well. 



■)o(- 



IN STIRRUPS. 

"Pufif! pufif!" goes the locomotive, and 
the passengers for Mount Washington are 
set down at the *'Tip-top House." So all 
the romance of climbing is gone. We shall 
yet visit the Holy Land with the ''Owl 
Train." Who knows but the water of the 
Helicon may yet be made to turn a fac- 
tory of shoe-pegs? Bucephalus would be a 
plain horse in Central Park, and Throck- 
morton's pointer, of history, is nothing 
compared with our dog, sharp at the nose, 
thin at the flanks, long in limb, and able to 
snuf¥ up the track of the reindeer three 
miles away. We tell a story of olden times 
— that is, of three years ago, for the world 
no longer contents itself to turn once a day 
on its axis, but makes fifty revolutions a 
minute. 

The breakfast hour of the Crawford 



7© Crumbs Swept Up. 

House, at the White Mountains, is past, 
and word is sounded through all the halls 
of the hotel that those who desire to as- 
cend Mount Washington must appear on 
the piazza. Thither we come, though an 
August morning, in midwinter apparel. 
The ladies, who the evening before had 
lighted up the parlors with the flash of dia- 
monds, now appear in rough apparel, much 
of which has been hired from the porter of 
the hotel, who sticks out his sign of hats, 
coats, and skirts to let. A lady, minus 
hoops, minus laces, minus jewelry, plus a 
shaggy jacket, plus boots, plus a blanket, 
equals a lady equipped for the ascent of 
Mount Washington. 

The horses came, unled, out of their 
stables, each one answering to his name — 
*^Spot," ''White Stocking," and "Bouncer." 
They were peculiar horses, unlike those 
you are accustomed to mount, their sides, 
their knees, and their fetlocks having the 
mark of the mountains. They had clam- 
bered terrible heights, and been cut again 
and again by the rocks. Not bit-champ- 
ing horses, thundernecked, but steady, 
serious, patient, the gloom of shadow and 
precipice in their eyes, a slight stoop in 
their gait, as though accustomed to move 
cautiously along places where it would be 
perilous to walk upright. We helped the 
ladies into the saddle, though we were all 



In Stirrups, 71 

the time afflicted with the uncertainty as to 
whom we were helping, and not knowing 
whether the foot we put into the stirrup be- 
longed to a Fifth-Avenue belle or one not 
accustomed to such polite attentions. 

Thirty-five in all, we moved up the 
bridlepath, through the woods, a band of 
musicians playing a lively air. With what 
exhilaration we started we will not attempt 
to tell, for we were already at great alti- 
tudes, and had looked on the Kearsarge, 
and the Chocorua, and felt the stroke of 
those emotions that slide from the stu- 
pendous bowlders of the Willie peaks when 
one first gazes upon them. 

''General Scott," considered the safest 
horse in all the mountains, began his up- 
ward career that morning by brushing off 
against a tree his fair rider. He did not 
seem sorry a bit, but looked round to me 
with a wink, as much as to say, "I do not 
like to wear belles in the summertime;" 
and, while I stood shocked at the poverty 
of the pun, he seemed hardly able to keep 
from breaking into a horse-laugh. 

Orders pass along the line: "Bear hard 
in the stirrup!" or, "Hold fast the pommel 
of the saddle!" Up a corduroy path we 
mounted, and wedged ourselves through 
narrow defiles, and height after height sank 
beneath; and the hoofs of the horse before 
us clattered close by the ears of our own 



72 Crumbs Swept Up. 

trusty beast, that bore bravely on, though 
the white legs that gave to him the name 
of White Stocking were already striped 
with blood struck out by the sharp edges of 
the first mountain. 

After a while the guides commanded us 
to halt. We were coming to more exciting 
experiences. The horses' girths were taken 
up another hole into the buckle, and their 
shoes examined. Again we fall into line. 
The guide takes his position by a plunge of 
rocks, so as to steady and encourage horses 
and riders. The ponies halt at the verge, 
look down, measure the distances, and ex- 
amine the places for a foothold. 

^'Steady!" shouts the guide. ''Steady!" 
cry the riders, and down the rocks you go, 
now with a leap, now with a slide, now 
with a headlong stumble against which you 
jerk up the reins with all your might, the 
horse recovering himself, and stopping 
midway the declivity for another look be- 
fore a deeper plunge, until, all panting and 
a-tremble with the exertion, he stops to 
rest a moment at the foot of the rocks, and 
you turn round, put your hand on your 
pony's back, and watch others poised for 
the same leap. 

Two hours more, and we have left vege- 
tation behind us. Mountain-ash, and birch, 
and maple, which we saw soon after start- 
ing, cannot climb such steeps as these. 



In Stirrups. 73 

Yes, we have come where spruce, and fir, 
and white pine begin to faint by the way, 
and in every direction you see the stark 
remains of the trees which have been bit- 
ten to death by the sharp white teeth of the 
frost. Yet God does not forsake even the 
highest peaks. The majesty of forests may 
be denied them, but the brow of this stu- 
pendous death hath its wreath of alpine 
plants, and its catafalque is strewn with 
iDluebells and anemones. 

After passing great reaches of desolation, 
you suddenly come upon a height gar- 
nished with a foam of white flowers dashed 
up from the sea of divine beauty. There, 
where neither hoof nor wheel can be traced, 
you find the track of God's foot in the turf; 
and on the granite, great natural laws writ- 
ten on ''tables of stone," hurled down and 
broken by the wrath of the tempest. Oh! 
how easy to see that the Divine care is here 
tending the white flocks of flowers which 
pick out their pasturage among the clefts. 

We are now in the region of driving 
mist, and storm, and hurricane. The wind 
searches to the bone, and puts a red blos- 
som on the soberest nose. It occurred to 
us that this must be the nest where all 
winds and storms of the countryarehatched 
out, under the brooding wing and the 
iron beak of this great Mount Washington 
blast. The rain drips from the rim of our 



74 Crumbs Swept Up. 

hats. Through the driving mist the ad- 
vancing cavalcade look weird and spectral. 
Those coming behind and beneath you, 
seem like ghosts traveling up from some 
nether world, and those before and above, 
as though horsed on the wind. 

Five of the party long ago turned back, 
overcome by cold, and fatigue, and fright, 
and, accompanied by one of the guides, are 
by this time safely housed. The rest are 
still advancing, and the guide with his long 
staff urges on the ponies. We are told 
that we are at the foot of the last steep. 
We cannot restrain our glee. We shout 
and laugh. The dullest man of all actually 
attempts a witticism. Our blood tingles! 
Hurrah for Mount Washington! We talk 
to persons that we never knew as though 
they were old acquaintances. We praise 
our horse. We feel like passing over our 
right hand to our left and congratulating 
ourselves. Deacons, ministers, and the 
gravest of the grave, sing snatches of ''John 
Brown," "Yankee Doodle," and 'The Girl 
I Left Behind Me." 

Our dignity loses its balance and falls 
ofif, and rolls down the side of the moun- 
tain, six thousand two hundred and eighty- 
five feet, so that the probability is that it 
will never again be recovered. We drive 
into the pen of rocks and as the party start 
on foot for the Tip-top House a few rods 



In Stirrups. 75 

off, we give one long, loud halloo, and the 
storms answer. 

Having entered the house, we threw off 
our coats. We gathered around the red- 
hot stoves. Some sat down exhausted; 
others were hysterical from the excitement. 
Strong men needed to be resuscitated; but 
by the time the dinner-bell sounded, the 
whole party were sufficiently revived to 
surround the tables. 

It is astonishing with what force the cork 
of a champagne bottle will fly out. Two 
of the company were knocked over by one 
of these corks, and one of the two after- 
ward fell from his horse and went rolling 
down the mountain. Elegant gentleman 
he was before the cork struck him, and had 
an elegant overcoat which he put up in a 
bet and lost, and would have been obliged 
to descend the mountain in a shivering con- 
dition (but for the guide who lent him a 
coat), through a hailstorm in which our 
horses stopped, and turned their backs, and 
refused to go till goaded on by the guides. 
With this exception the dining hour was 
not marred. But while we were abundant- 
ly supplied, alas, for ''White Stocking," 
''Spot," and "Bouncer!" They stood in a 
roofless pen. Mountain horses have a hard 
life. Did we not pride ourselves on our 
orthodoxy, we would express the hope that 
these suffering beasts, so much wronged 



76 Crumbs Swept Up. 

on earth, may have a future Ufe, where, un- 
harnessed and unwhipped, they may range 
in high, thick, luxuriant pasture for ever 
and ever. 



■)o(- 



GOOD CHEER. 

Our disposition is much of our own mak- 
ing. We admit there is great difference in 
natural constitutions. Some persons are 
born cross. See that man with a long face 
that never shortens into a laugh! Tell me, 
did not his mother have trouble with him 
when he was small? Why, he never was 
pleased. Did he not make riots in the 
nursery among looking-glasses and glass 
pitchers? Was his nurse ever able on her 
knee to jolt down his petulance, or shake 
up his good-humor? Did he not often hold 
an indignation meeting flat on the floor — 
his hands, his head, and his feet all par- 
ticipating in the exercises? Could not his 
father tell you a story of twelve o'clock at 
night, with hasty toilet, walking the floor 
with the dear little blessing in his arms? A 
story that would be a caution to old 
bachelors. 

Some are from infancy light and happy 
— they romp, they fly. You can hear their 



Good Cheer. 77 

swift feet in the hall. Their loud laughter 
rings through the house, or in the woods 
bursts into a score of echoes. At night 
you can hardly hush their glad hearts for 
slumber, and in the morning they wake 
you with their singing. Alas! if then they 
leave you, and you no more hear their swift 
feet in the hall, and their loud laughter 
ringing through the house, or in the woods 
bursting into a score of echoes; if they 
wake you no more in the morning with 
their sweet song; if the color go out of the 
rose and its leaves fall; if angels for once 
grow jealous, and want what you cannot 
spare; if packed away in the trunk or 
drawer there be silent garments that once 
fluttered with youthful life, and by mistake 
you call some other child by the name of 
the one departed — ah me! ah me! 

But while we may all from our childhood 
have a certain bent given to our disposi- 
tion, much depends upon ourselves 
whether we will be happy or miserable. 

You will see in the world chiefly that 
for which you look. A farmer going 
through the country chiefly examines the 
farms, an architect the buildings, a mer- 
chant the condition of the markets, a rnin- 
ister the churches; and so a man going 
through the world will see the most of that 
for which he especially looks. He who is 
constantly watching for troubles will find 



78 Crumbs Swept Up. 

them stretching off into gloomy wilder- 
nesses, while he who is watching for bless- 
ings will find them hither and thither ex- 
tending in harvests of luxuriance. 

Like most garments, like most carpets, 
everything in life has a right side and a 
wrong side. You can take any joy, and by 
turning it around, find troubles on the 
other side; or you may take the greatest 
trouble, and by turning it around, find joys 
on the other side. The gloomiest moun- 
tain never casts a shadow on both sides at 
once, nor does the greatest of life's calami- 
ties. The earth in its revolutions manages 
about right — it never has darkness all over 
at the same time. Sometimes it has night 
in America, and sometimes in China, but 
there is some part of the earth constantly in 
the bright sunlight. My friends, do as the 
earth does. When you have trouble, keep 
turning round, and you will find sunlight 
somewhere. Amid the thickest gloom 
through which you are called to pass, carry 
your own candle. A consummate fret will, 
in almost every instance, come to nothing. 
You will not go to such a merchant's store, 
nor employ such a mechanic, nor call such 
a minister. 

Fretfulness will kill anything that is not 
in its nature immortal. There is a large 
class of persons in constant trouble about 
their health, although the same amount of 



Good Cheer, 79 

strength in a cheerful man would be taken 
as healthiness. Their digestion, being con- 
stantly suspected of unfaithfulness, tinally 
refuses to serve such a master, and says, 
"Hereafter make way with your own lob- 
sters!" and the suspected lungs resign their 
ofhce, saying, "Hereafter, blow your own 
bellows!" For the last twenty years he has 
been expecting every moment to faint. His 
nerves make insurrection, and rise up 
against his head, saying, "Come! let uS 
seize upon this armory!" His face is per- 
petually drawn, as though he either had a 
pain or expected one. 

You fear to accost him with, "How are 
you to-day?" for that would be the signal 
for a shower of complaints. He is always 
getting a lump on his side, an enlargement 
of the heart, or a curve in the spine. If 
some of these disorders did not actually 
come, he would be sick of disappointment. 
If you should find his memorandum-book, 
you would discover in it recipes, in elderly 
female handwriting, for the cure of all 
styles of diseases, from softening of the 
brain in a man, down to the bots in a 
horse. His bedroom-shelf is an apothecary- 
infantum, where medicines of all kinds may 
be found, from large bottles full of head- 
wash for diseased craniums, down to the 
smallest vial, full of the best preparations 
for the removing of corns from the feet. 



8o Crumbs Swept Up. 

Thousands of men are being destroyed by 
this constant suspicion of their health. 

Others settle down into a gloomy state 
from forebodings of trouble to come. They 
do not know why it is, but they are always 
expecting that something will happen. 
They imagine about one presentiment a 
week. A bird flies into the window, or a 
salt-cellar upsets on the table, or a cricket 
chirps on the hearth, and they shiver all 
over, and expect a messenger speedily to 
come in hot haste to the front door, and 
rush in with evil tidings. 

Away, away with all forebodings as to 
the future! Cheer up, disconsolate ones! 
Go forth among nature. Look up toward 
the heavens, insufferably bright by day or at 
night when the sky is merry with ten thou- 
sand stars, joining hands of light, with the 
earth in the ring, going round and round 
with gleam, and dance, and song, making 
old Night feel young again. Go to the for- 
est, where the woodman's axe rings on the 
trees, and the solitude is broken by the 
call of the woodsparrow, and the chewink 
starting up from among the huckleberry- 
bushes. Go to where the streams leap down 
ofif the rocks, and their crystal heels clatter 
over the white pebbles. Go to where the 
wild flowers stand drinking out of the 
mountain-brook, and, scattered on the 
grass, look as if all the oreads had cast 



Power of a Child' s Face. 8i 

their crowns at the foot of the steep. Hark 
to the fluting of the winds and the long- 
metre psalm of the thunder! Look at the 
Morning coming down the mountains, and 
Evening drawing aside the curtain from 
heaven's wall of jasper, amethyst, sardonyx, 
and chalcedony! Look at all this, and then 
be happy. 



-)o(- 



POWER OF A CHILD'S FACE. 

Every intelligent American, in crossing 
the ocean, has a lively desire of confront- 
ing the works of the old masters of paint- 
ing. He wants to see Poussin and Correg- 
gio as certainly as Ben Lomond and the 
Splugen Pass. 

If he happen first to look in upon the pic- 
ture gallery of Holyrood, where the faces 
of a hundred Scottish kings are hung, his 
first feeling will be one of gladness that 
they are all dead, for such another villainous 
brood of faces no man ever looked upon. 
Such eyes, such mouths, such noses, would 
confound any rogues'-gallery in any city. 
We believe the whole gallery a slander by 
a Flemish master, and that Scotland never 
had any such atrocious men or women to 
rule over her. We say nothing against 



82 Crumbs Swept Up. ■ 

homely features in the abstract. Any man 
has an inahenable right to carry such a 
nose as he will. That is a right patent on 
the face of it. Lord Welhngton had a 
hooked nose, and Thackeray a turn-up 
nose, and Robert Bruce a nose all over the 
face; but to have a nose that looks as if in- 
tended to be thrust into everybody else's 
business, or to be stuck up in scorn, or to 
blossom with dissipations, or to snuff at 
the cause of virtue — we protest against any 
man's right to carry such an infamous 
proboscis. We are certain that no such- 
looking faces as we see in Holyrood ought 
to have been perpetuated by a master. Let 
the extinct species of such megatheriums 
never hear the clang of the crowbar. It is 
not fair that the Royal College of Surgeons 
should keep the cancer of which Napoleon 
died. There should be no immortality of 
cancers. 

But no one can forget the place, or the 
day, or the hour, when he first gazed on a 
genuine work of one of the old masters. 
We had seen for years pieces of canvas 
which pretended to have come from Italy 
or Germany, and to be three or four hun- 
dred years old. The chief glory of them 
was that they were cracked, and wrinkled, 
and dull, and inexplicable, and had great 
antiquity of varnish, immensity of daub, 
and infinity of botch. The great-grand- 



Power of a Child" s Face. 83 

father of the exhibitor got the heirloom 
from a Portuguese peddler, who was 
wrecked at Venice in the middle of the last 
century, and went ashore just as one of the 
descendants of the celebrated Braggadocia 
Thundergusto, of the fourteenth century, 
was hard up for money, and must have a 
drink or die. 

But I find in my diary this record: 

''June 30, 1870, at two o'clock p. m., in 
the National Gallery of Scotland, I first 
saw a 'Titian.' 

"July 9, 1870, at ten minutes of three 
o'clock, in the National Gallery of England, 
first saw a 'Murillo.' " 

It seemed to require a sacred subject to 
call out the genius of the old masters. On 
secular themes they often failed. They 
knew not, as do the moderns, how to pluck 
up a plant from the earth and make it live 
on canvas. Delmonico, for the adornment 
of a shoulder of bacon, with his knife cuts 
out of a red beet a rose more natural than 
the forget-me-not of old Sigismond Hol- 
bein, or the lily by Lo Spagna. Their bat- 
tle-pieces are a Cincinnati slaughter-house. 
Their Cupid scenes are merely a nursery of 
babies that rush out from the bath-tub into 
the hall before their mother has time to 



84 Crumbs Swept Up. 

dress them. The masters failed with a fid- 
dle, but shook the earth with a diapason. 
Give them a ''Crucifixion" or a "Judg- 
ment," and they triumph. 

Indeed when men paint or write or act 
from the heart, they are potent. By the 
time that a thought, starting from the 
artist's brain, can c£>me down through the 
neck into the shoulder, and through the 
right arm to the fingers, and off the finger- 
tips to the point of the pencil, it has lost its 
momentum, and languishes on the canvas; 
but a thought that starts from the brain, 
and streams to the heart, there to be taken 
with a strong throb, and as by the stroke 
of a piston, forced through the arm to the 
canvas, arrives unspent and redoubled. 
The old masters succeeded not in depicting 
what they thought so well as in what they 
felt. Thoughts are often hard, and green, 
and tough, till the warm sunshine of the 
heart ripens them. 

Most of the ancient artists tried their 
hand at the Virgin and the Child, always 
evidencing their own nationality in the 
style of infantile beauty selected. The 
Dutch school gives a Dutch child, the 
Roman school a Roman child, the Spanish 
school a Spanish child. Rubens's Christ 
was not born at Bethlehem, but at Ant- 
werp. And as parents are not apt to under- 
value their children, it is probable that they 



Power of a Child' s Face. 85 

took the model which sat in their own 
nursery, gathering around it their own 
ideal of the infant Jesus. Francesco Tac- 
coni represents the Holy Child as very 
thoughtful, a young philosopher at one 
year of age, with very red hair. Vivarini 
gives us a startled child. Duccio paints 
for us a child wrapped up in admiration of 
its mother. But Lo Spagna gives us the 
look of a glad child that would romp if it 
were not afraid of jumping out of the pic- 
ture. Why not a glad child? The burdens 
had not yet rolled over on Him. Those 
were good days to Him. Joseph and Mary 
walked and trudged, but He always had a 
soft carriage to ride in — that of his 
mother's bosom. He had enough to wear, 
for He was wrapped in swaddling-clothes. 
He probably had enough to eat, for 
mothers in those days were not pinched to 
death with corsets, and so the child need 
not go outside of its mother's arms for 
abundant supply. 

But any pleasant afternoon when the 
children of our city are out taking an air- 
ing, I could find a score of infant faces 
more like Jesus than any I have seen on 
ancient canvas. Perhaps, after a while, an 
American artist will give us the Virgin and 
the Child. It would be more apt to be im- 
partial than that of any of the ancients. 
They put their own nationality into the pic- 



86 Crumbs Swept Up. 

ture, and it was a German Christ, or a 
Venetian Christ, or a Tuscan Christ; but 
the American, having in him the blood of 
many lands, and in his face a commingling 
of the features of all nations, when he gives 
us upon canvas Mary and the Child, it will 
be a world's affection bending over a 
world's Christ. 

Not only in the Madonnas, but in nearly 
all the chief pictures, the painters show 
their liking for children. You see a child 
peeping out somewhere. If there is no 
other way to get him into the picture, Paul 
Veronese will slide him down in the shape 
of a cherub on a plank of sunbeams. 

You would hardly expect children in 
Raphael's 'Teter and John Healing the 
Lame Man." You expect that the majesty 
of the scene will crowd out all familiarities. 
You would say that children ought to get 
out of the way when such exciting work is 
going on. There lies a lame man, his hand 
in the hand of the apostle. The sufferer 
looks up with a face that has anguish 
scorched into every feature; for though 
born a cripple, he had never got used to it. 
No man that I ever saw before wanted so 
much to get well. His twisted foot no 
human doctor could straighten. The mus- 
cles that bound it on the wrong side might 
have been cut, but the muscles on the other 
side would not have drawn it back to the 



Power of a Child' s Face, 87 

right place. There lay the helpless, dis- 
torted foot, making its dumb prayer. Yon- 
der is another deformed beggar hobbling 
up. If Peter is successful with the first 
case, this lame man would like to have his 
limbs looked at. Still, he is not anxious. 
He is angry with the world and angry with 
heaven. His manner seems to say, "How 
did God dare to make me thus?" The 
wretch had been kicked off of people's 
steps, and jeered at by the boys of the town, 
till he did not much care what became of 
him. A face full of everything hard, bitter, 
malicious. He is ready either to receive 
help at the hand of the apostle, or to strike 
him with the crutch. Does r^t much be- 
lieve there is any cure, does not much care. 
Has not heard a kind word for twenty- 
years, and would not be at all surprised if 
he v/ere howled away now. A foul face — 
even the hair on the chin curls with scorn. 
He has the fierceness of an adder, which, 
trod on, curls up to bite its pursuer. The 
distortion of the body has struck in and 
deformed the soul. You feel that your 
only safety in his presence is that he can- 
not walk. His figure haunts a man for 
days. 

It is a scene that puts the heart in a vise, 
and starts the cold sweat on the forehead, 
and holds you with a spell from which you 
are trying to break away, until you look 



88 Crumbs Swept Up. 

just over the head of the vicious mendicant, 
and see the clear, innocent face of a child 
hushed in its mother's arms, and then look 
to the left, and see two round-limbed chil- 
dren bounding into the scene, wondering 
what is the matter. With their dimpled 
hands, they pull out the thorns of the pic- 
ture. It is a stubborn sea of trouble that 
will not divide when four baby feet go pad- 
dling in it. We are glad that Raphael did 
not choose for the picture cherubs with 
wings fastened at the backbone, ready any 
moment to fly away with them, but children 
that look as if they had come to stay. 
Rather thinly dressed, indeed, for cool w^ea- 
ther. Raphael's picture-children did not 
cost him much for clothes. You know it 
was a warm climate. 

Though a bachelor, Raphael knew the 
worth of children in a picture. With their 
little hands they open the inside door of 
the heart, and let us pass in, when other- 
wise we might have been kept standing on 
the cold steps, looking at the corbeils and 
caryatides of the outside architecture. It 
was a little maid that directed Naaman to 
Jordan for healing, and it is a child in the 
picture that shows the leper of harsh criti- 
cism where to wash his scales ofif. It is by 
the introduction of children into their 
paintings that Canaletto gives warmth to 
the ice-white castles of Venice, and Gains- 



The Old Clock. 89 

borough simplicity to the hollowness of a 
watering-place, and Turner pathos to the 
"Decline of Carthage," and Ruysdale life 
to a dead landscape; and Giotto and 
Tacconi and Orcagna and Joshua Reynolds 
follow in the track of a boy's foot. "And a 
little child shall lead them." 



-)o(- 



THE OLD CLOCK. 

''Going! Going!" said the auctioneer. "Is 
seven dollars all I hear bid for this old fam- 
ily clock. Going! Going! Gone! Who 
bought it?" We looked around, and found 
that a hard-visaged dealer in old furniture 
had become the possessor of the venerable 
time-piece. It was not like the clocks you 
turn out of a factory, fifty a day, unprin- 
cipled clocks that would as lief lie as tell 
the truth, and that stand on the shelf a- 
chuckle when they find that they have 
caused you to miss the train. But such a 
clock as stood in the hall of your father's 
house when you were a boy. No one ever 
thought of such a time-piece as having 
been manufactured, but took it for granted 
that it had been born in the ages past, and 
had come on down in the family from gen- 
eration to generation. 

The old clock in the auction room, which 



90 Crumbs Swept Up. 

had been talking persistently for so long a 
time, said not a word. Its hands were be- 
fore its face, unable to hide its grief. It 
had lost all its friends, and in old age had 
been turned out on the world. Its fortunes, 
like its weights, had rmi down. Looking 
through its glasses, it seemed to say: 

''Have I come to this? I have struck the 
hours, and now they come back to strike 
me!" 

It first took its place on the old home- 
stead about seventy years ago. Grand- 
father and grandmother had just been mar- 
ried. That was a part of their outfit. It 
called them to their first meal. There were 
the blue-edged dishes, and bone-handled 
knives, and homely fare, and an appetite 
sharpened on the woodpile, or by the snow- 
shoveling. As the clock told twelve of 
noon, the rugged pair, in homemade gar- 
ments, took their position at the table, and 
keeping time to the rattle of knives, and 
forks, and spoons, the clock went Tick — 
tock! Tick — tock! 

There were the shining tin pans on the 
shelf. There were the woollen mittens on 
the stand. There were the unpolished raf- 
ters over head. There was the spinning- 
wheel in the corner. There was the hot 
fire, over which the apples baked, till they 
had sagged down, brown, and sissing hot; 
and the saucepan, on the hearth, was get- 



The Old Clock. 91 

ting up the steam, the milk just lifting the 
lid to look out, and sputtering with pas- 
sion, until with one sudden dash it streams 
into the fire, making the housewife rush 
with holder and tongs to the rescue. The 
flames leaped up around the back-log, and 
the kettle rattled with the steam, and jocund 
laughter bounded away, and the old clock 
looked on with benignant face, as much as 
to say: 

"Grand sport. Happy pair. Good times. 
Clocks sympathize. Tick — tock! Tick — 
tock!" 

One day, at a vendue, grandfather was 
seen, with somewhat confused face, bid- 
ding on a high chair and a cradle. As 
these newly-purchased articles came into 
the house, the old clock in its excitement 
struck five, when it ought to have sounded 
four, but the pendulum cried ''Order!" and 
everything came back to its former com- 
posure, save that, as a dash of sunshine 
struck the face of the clock, it seemed to 
say, ''Time-pieces are not fools! Clocks 
sound the march of generations. A time 
to be born, as well as a time to die. Tick 
— tock! Tick — tock!" 

A mischievous child trying to catch the 
pendulum: a crying child held up to be 
quieted while listening to the motion of the 
works: a curious child standing on a chair 
trying to put his fingers among the cogs to 



92 Crumbs Swept Up. 

see what they are made of: a tired child, 
falling asleep in a cradle. Henceforth the 
clock has beautiful accompaniment. Old- 
time cradle with a mother's foot on it, 
going ''Rickety — rack! rickety — rack!" All 
infantile trouble crushed under the rocker. 
Clock singing, "I started before you were 
born." Cradle responding, ''That which I 
swing shall live after you are dead." Clock 
chanting, "I sound the passing of Time." 
Cradle answering, "I soothe an heir of 
Eternity." Music! cradle to clock, clock 
to cradle. More tender than harp, more 
stirring than huntsman's bugle. 

The old time-piece had kept account of 
the birthday of all the children. Eighteen 
times it had tolled the old year out, and 
rung the new year in, and fair Isabel was 
to be married. The sleighs crunched 
through the snow, till at the doorway with 
one sudden crash of music from the bells 
the horses halted, and the guests, shawled 
and tippeted, came in. The stamp of heavy 
boots in the hall knocked ofif the snow, 
and voices of neighborly good-cheer shook 
the dwelling. The white-haired minister 
stood mid-floor waiting for the hour to 
strike, when the clock gave a premonitory 
rumble to let them know it was going ofif, 
and then hammered eight. The blushing 
pair stepped into the room, and the long 
charge was given, and at the close a series 



The Old Clock. 93 

of explosive greetings, no simpering touch 
of the Hps, but good, round, hearty demon- 
strations of affection into which people 
threw themselves before kissing was an art. 
The clock seemed to enjoy it all, and every 
moment had something to say: 

'T stood here when she was born. I was 
the only one present at the courtship. I 
told the young man when it was time to go, 
although sometimes he minded me not, and 
I had to speak again. I ordered the com- 
mencement of ceremonies to-day. I will 
dismiss the group. Good luck to Isabel, 
and an honest eight-day clock to bless her 
wherever she may go. Tick — tock! Tick 
— tock!" 

After many years grandfather became 
dull of hearing, and dim of sight. He 
could not hear the striking of the hours, 
but came close up and felt of the hands, 
and said: 

'Tt is eight o'clock, and I must go to 
bed." 

He never rose again. 

He could not get his feet warm. The 
watchers sat night after night, listening to 
the delirious talking of the old man, the 
rehearsal in broken sentences of scenes 
long ago gone by — of how the Tories 
acted, and how the Hessians ran. 

All spake in a whisper, and moved 
around the room on tiptoe; but there was 



94 Crumbs Swept Up. 

one voice that would not be quieted. If 
the watchers said — *'Hush!" it seemed to 
take up a louder tone. It was the old clock 
in the next room. It looked so sad when, 
watching for the hour to give the medicine, 
the candle was lifted to its face. At the 
wedding it laughed. Now it seemed to toll. 
Its wheels had a melancholy creak; its 
hands, as they passed over the face, trem- 
bled and lookecl thin, like the fingers of an 
old man moving in a dying dream. 

Poor old clock! 

The hand that every Saturday night for 
forty years has wound it up will soon be 
still. The iron pulses of the old time-piece 
seem to flutter, as though its own spirit were 
departing. Its tongue is thick; its face is 
white as one struck with death. 

But, just as grandfather's heart, after 
running for eighty years, ceased to tick, 
the old clock rallied, as much as to say: 

"It is the last thing I can do for him, 
and so I must toll the death-knell — one! 
two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! 
nine! ten! eleven! twelve!" 

With that it stopped. 

Ingenious craftsmen attempted to repair 
it, and oiled the wheels, and swung the 
pendulum. But it would not go! 

Its race was run; its heart was broken; 
its soul had departed. When grandfather 
died, the clock died with him. 



Out-of-Doors. 95 

What if the furniture dealer did set it 
down and cover it up with his rubbish. If 
the soul go straight, it makes but little dif- 
ference to us where we are buried. 

It is time that dust and ashes should 
cover the face and hands of the dear old 
clock. Dust to dust! 



-)o(- 



OUT-OF-DOORS. 

On this the brightest week of the bright- 
est month of all the year, I sit down to 
write that which I hope may be pleasant 
to read when red-armed Autumn smites 
his anvil, and through all the woods the 
sparks are flying, and it needs not a pro- 
phetic eye to see the mountains from base 
to tip-top filled with horses and chariots of 
fire. Indeed, June and October, if they 
could see each other, would soon be mar- 
ried. Not much difference between their 
ages; the one fair, and the other ruddy; 
both beautiful to look upon, and typical; 
the one holding a bunch of flowers, and 
the other a basket of fruit. The south winds 
would harp at the nuptials, and against 
the uplifted chalices would dash the blood 
of strawberry and grape. To that marriage 
altar January would bring its cups of crys- 



96 Crumbs Swept Up. 

tal, and April its strung beads of shower, 
and July its golden crown of wheat. 

Another dream of our life is fulfilled. 
For the last eight years we have wanted a 
place where for a few weeks, apart from the 
hard work of our profession, we could sit 
with our coat off, laugh to the full extent 
of our lungs without shocking fastidious 
ears, and raise Cochin-China hens of the 
pure breed. 

While yet the March snows were on the 
ground we started out to purchase a place 
in the country. Had unaccountable ex- 
periences with land-agents, drove horses 
terrible for tardiness or speed, gazed on 
hills and flats, examined houses with roof 
pitched or horizontal, heard fabulous stor- 
ies of Pennsylvania grass, and New Jersey 
berries, until one day, the wind a hurricane, 
and the roads slush, and the horse a-drip 
with rain from blinder to trace, we drove 
up in front of a cottage, the first glance at 
which assured us we had come to the ful- 
filment of our wishes. 

In selecting a place, the first requisite is 
seclusion. There is a profound satisfaction 
in not being looked at. After dwelling for 
a considerable time in a large place, you 
are apt to know a multitude. If on some 
Monday morning, starting down street, 
you feel decidedly frisky, you must never- 
theless walk with as grave a step as though 



Out-of- Doors. 97 

ascending a pulpit. If you acted out one- 
half the blitheness you feel, a score of gen- 
tlemen and ladies would question your san- 
ity. A country village affords no retreat. 
There everybody knows everybody's busi- 
ness. You cannot raise half a dozen gos- 
lings without having them stoned for pick- 
ing off your neighbors gooseberries. Gos- 
sip wants no better heaven than a small 
village. Miss Glib stands at her gate three 
times a day talking with old Mrs. Chatter- 
box, and on rainy days at the blacksmith 
shop the w^hole business of the town swims 
in a tank of tobacco-juice of the worst plug. 
Everybody knows whether this morning 
out of butcher's cart you bought mutton or 
calf's liver, and the mason's wife, at the 
risk of breaking her neck, rushes down 
stairs to exclaim, "J^st think of it! Mrs. 
Stuckup has bought a sirloin steak, and 
she is no better than other people!" Your 
brass kettle is always borrowed. A band- 
box was seen going from the millinery- 
shop to the house of a villager on Saturday 
afternoon, and on Sunday morning a score 
of people are early at church, head half- 
turned toward the door, ready to watch 
the coming in of the new purchase, hand- 
kerchief up to mouth, ready to burst out 
at what they pronounce a perfect fright of 
a bonnet. They always ask w^hat you gave 
for a thing, and say you were cheated; had 

7 



98 Crumbs Swept Up, 

something of a better quality they could 
have let you have for half the money. We 
have at different times lived in a small vil- 
lage, and many of our best friends dwell 
there, but we give as our opinion that there 
are other places more favorable for a man's 
getting to heaven. 

Yes, our place must be secluded. Not 
roused at night by fire-engines, nor wak- 
ened in the morning by the rattle of milk- 
man's wagon. Our milk-can shall come 
softly up in the shape of our clear-eyed, 
sleek-skinned, beautiful Devon. No chalk- 
settlings at the bottom of the milk, or un- 
accountable things floating on the top — 
honest milk, innocent of pump, foaming till 
it seems piled up above the rivets of the 
pail-handle. The air at noon untormented 
of jar and crash and jostle: only hen's 
cackle, and sheep's bleat, and cow's bel- 
low, and the rattle of clevises as the plough 
wheels at the end of the furrow. No call- 
ing in of people just because they suppose 
it is expected, but the coming in of neigh- 
bors and friends because they really want 
to see you, their appetite so whetted with 
the breath of ploughed ground that they 
are satisfied if you have nothing but ham 
for dinner. Such seclusion we have at 
Woodside. 

It is never real morning except in the 
country. In the city in the early part of 



Old- of- Doors. 99 

the day there is a mixed color that climbs 
down over the roofs opposite, and through 
the smoke of the chimney, that makes peo- 
ple think it is time to get up and comb 
their hair. But we have real morning in 
the country. Morning! descending "from 
God out of heaven like a bride adorned for 
her husband." A few moments ago I 
looked out, and the army of night-shadows 
were striking their tents. A red light on 
the horizon that does not make me think as 
it did Alexander Smith of "the barren 
beach of hell," but more like unto the fire 
kindled on the shore by Him whom the 
disciples saw at daybreak stirring the blaze 
on the beach of Gennesaret. Just now the 
dew woke up in the hammock of the tree- 
branches, and the light kissed it. Yonder, 
leaning against the sky, two great uprights 
of flame, crossed by many rundles of fire! 
Some Jacob must have been dreaming. 
Through those burnished gates a flaming 
chariot rolls. Some Elijah must be ascend- 
ing. Morning! I wish I had a rousing bell 
to wake the whole world up to see it. 
Every leaf a psalm. Every flower a censer. 
Every bird a chorister. Every sight beauty. 
Every sound music. Trees transfigured. 
The skies in conflagration. The air as if 
sweeping down from hanging-gardens of 
heaven. The foam of celestial seas plashed 
on the white tops of the spir^a. The honey- 



lOO Crumbs Swept Up. 

suckle on one side my porch challenges 
the sweet-brier on the other. The odors 
of heliotrope overflow the urns and flood 
the garden. Syringas with bridal blos- 
soms in their hair, and roses bleeding with 
a very carnage of color. Oh, the glories 
of day-dawn in the country! My pen trem- 
bles, and my eyes moisten. Unlike the 
flaming sword that drove out the first pair 
from Eden, these fiery splendors seem like 
swords unsheathed by angel hands to drive 
us in. 

We always thought we would like to 
have a place near a woods. A few trees 
will not satisfy us. They feel lonely, and 
sigh, and complain about the house; but 
give me an untamed woods that with in- 
numerable voices talk all night in their 
sleep, and when God passes in the chariot 
of the wind wave their plumes and shout, 
as multitudes in a king's procession. 

Our first night at Woodside was gusty, 
and with the hum of multitudinous spring- 
leaves in our ears we dreamed all night of 
waves roaring and battalions tramping. 
Shrubs and bushes do not know much, and 
have but little to say, but old trees are 
grand company. Like Jotham's, they talk 
in parables from the top of Gerizim; have 
whole histories in their trunk; tell you of 
what happened when your father was a 
boy; hold engravings on their leaves of 



Out of- Doors. loi 

divine etching, and every bursting bud is a 
"Thanatopsis." There are some trees that 
were never meant to be civiHzed. With 
great sweat and strain I dug up from the 
woods a small tree and set it in the door- 
yard; but it has been in a huff ever since. 
I saw at the time that it did not like it. It 
never will feel at home among the dressed- 
up evergreens. It is difBcult successfully 
to set hemlocks, and kalmias, and switch- 
hazel, into the rhyme of a garden. They do 
better in the wild blank-verse of the forest. 

We always thought that we would like a 
place which, though secluded, would be 
easy of access to the city. We always want 
our morning newspaper by breakfast. This 
little world is so active that we cannot af- 
ford to let twenty-four hours pass without 
hearing what new somersault it has taken. 
If we missed a single number we would 
not know that the day before the Czar of 
Russia had been shot at. Some day we 
must have a certain book. We need an ex- 
press to bring it. Oh, it is pleasant to sit a 
little back and hear the busy world go 
humming past without - touching us, yet 
confident that if need be our saddle could 
in ten minutes rush us into it. 

Thank God for a good, long, free breath 
in the country! For the first time in ten 
years we feel rested. Last evening we sped 
along the skirt of the wood. Our horse 



I02 Crumbs Swept Up. 

prefers to go fast, and we like to please 
him; and what with the odor of red clover- 
tops, and the breath of the woods, and the 
company with us in the carriage, and the 
moonlight it was nothing less than en- 
chantment. 

There is something in this country air to 
put one in blandest mood. Yesterday we 
allowed a snake to cross our path without 
any disposition on our part to kill it. We 
are at peace with all the world. We would 
not hurt a spider. We could take our bit- 
terest foe and give him a camp-stool on 
the piazza. We would not blame him for 
not liking us if he liked our strawberries. 
We would walk with him arm in arm 
through watermelon-patch and peach- 
orchard. He should be persuaded that if 
we could not write good sermons and viva- 
cious lectures, we can nevertheless raise 
great pumpkins, and long orange-carrots, 
and Drumhead cabbage. We would take 
him in our carriage, going at consistent 
ministerial gait, as though on the way to 
Old School Presbytery, never racing with 
any one, if there were danger of our being 
beaten. We hereby proclaim peace forever 
with any man who likes our hens. We 
fear we would have been tem.pted to sign 
Jefif Davis's bail-bond if he had praised our 
early scarlet radishes. 

Amidst such scenes till autumn. Con- 



Out-of- Doors. 103 

gregations would be advantaged by it if 
for a few weeks of every year they would 
allow their pastors a little farm-life. Three 
weeks at fashionable watering-place will 
not do the work. There is not enough salts 
and sulphur in all the springs to overcome 
the tight shoes, and the uncomfortable 
gloves, and the late hours, and the high liv- 
ing, and the dresses economical at the neck. 
Rather turn us out to physical work. A 
sharp hoe will hack to pieces all your dys- 
pepsia. A pruning-knife will cut off the ex- 
crescences of your disposition. The dash 
of the shower that wets you to the skin will 
cool your spirit for ecclesiastical strife. 
Daily swinging of the axe will tone up 
your nerves. Trampling down the hay as 
it is tossed into the mow will tread into 
forgetfulness your little perplexities. In 
the wake of the plough you may pick up 
strength with which to battle public in- 
iquity. Neighbors looking over the fence 
may think we are only weeding canta- 
loupes, or splitting rails, or husking corn, 
when we are rebuilding our strength, en- 
kindling our spirits, quickening our brain, 
purifying our theology, and blessing our 
souls. 

Here I stop. The aroma of the garden 
almost bewilders my senses. Flowers seem 
to me the dividing-line between the phy- 
sical and the spiritual. The stamen of the 



I04 Cruinbs Swept Up. 

honeysuckle is the alabaster pillar at which 
the terrestrial and the celestial part and 
meet. Out of the cup of the water-lily- 
earth and heaven drink. May the blessing 
of larkspur and sweet-william fall upon all 
the dwellers in country and town! Let 
there be some one to set a tuft of mignon- 
ette by every sick man's pillow, and plant 
a fuchsia in every working-man's yard, and 
place a geranium in ever}^ sewing-girl's 
window, and twine a cypress about every 
poor man's grave. And, above all, may 
there come upon us the blessing of Him 
whose footsteps the mosses mark, and 
whose breath is the redolence of flowers! 
Between these leaves I press thee — O "Lily 
of the Valley!" 

)o( 



EDINBURGH AS A BRAIN-STIM- 
ULANT. 

Rushed at the rate of sixty miles an hour 
into the capital of Scotland, and set down 
with the shriek of the steam-whistle — com- 
pared with which a sound of an American 
locomotive is a harpsichord — here we are. 

The sensitive traveler will not sleep the 
first night in Edinburgh, and will do well 
if the second night he can be composed. 
The restlessness mav not be ascribed to a 



Edinburgh as a Brain- Stimulant. 105 

lack of comfortable couch, for the art of 
bed-making has been carried to perfection 
here. You are not called, as in many an 
American hotel, to sleep on a promontory 
of mattresses, not certain on which side 
you may fall off into the sea. There are 
no lumps in the bed that take you in the 
middle of the back, or hardnesses in the 
pillow that make you dream like Jacob 
on the stones, barring out the ladder and 
the angels. The foot-board is not so near 
the head-board that the sleeper is, all the 
night long, reminded of his end. There are 
no stray points of feathers thrust through 
the linen to tickle you under the ribs. The 
covers do not come within just three inches 
of being large enough when you pull them 
up, making bare the foot, or when, by the 
grasp of the ''comfortable" between the 
large toe and the fatty portion of the foot, 
you pull them down, exposing the shoul- 
der, so that you fancy, in your disturbed 
slumber, that you are perishing in a snow- 
bank. But a broad, smooth, affluent couch, 
on which you may sublimely roll, reckless 
of covers, and confident that beyond the 
point at which you stop there is still further 
expanse of comfort and ease. 

But the restlessness will be accounted for 
by the fact that in no city under the sun is 
there so much to excite the memory and 
the imagination. It is a stimulant amount- 



io6 Crumbs Sivept Up. 

ing to intoxication. We find gentlemen 
whose minds have been overworked in this 
city seeking mental quiet. As well go to 
Iceland to get warm, or to Borneo to get 
cool. The Past and the Present jostle each 
other. The shoulder of modern architec- 
ture is set against the arch of the twelfth 
century. Antiquity says, 'T will furnish 
the ideas," and the Present says, *T will 
freeze them into stone." You take in 
with one glance 'The Abbey," built by 
Roman Catholic David the First, which 
has for seven hundred years sat counting 
its beads of stone, and that modern struc- 
ture 'The Donaldson Hospital," a palace 
of charity, crowned with twenty-four tur- 
rets, inviting to its blessing the poor chil- 
dren of the city, and launching them on 
the world every way equipped — knowledge 
in their heads, grace in their hearts, and 
money in their pockets. While in one 
part of the castle you are examining old 
"Mons Meg," the big gun that burst in the 
time of James the Second, you hear from 
another part of the castle the merciless 
bang of Professor Smythe's time-gun, 
fired off by a wire reaching across the city 
from the Observatory. 

Edinburgh and Boston have each been 
called "the modern Athens." We shall not 
here decide between them. They are much 
alike in literary atmosphere, but at the an- 



Edinburgh as a Brain-Stimula?it. 107 

tipodes in some respects. In Boston, liter- 
ature has a Unitarian tinge; in Edinburgh, 
a Presbyterian. In this Scotch capital, re- 
ligion, politics, science, and literature are 
inextricably mixed. The late Sir James Y. 
Simpson, M. D., whose face is in all the 
photographic show-windows of the city, 
and whose life was spent in surgery, re- 
cently made an address on "Dead in Tres- 
passes and Sins;" and Doctor Brown, a 
practicing physician on Rutledge Street, 
wrote of ''Paul's Thorn in the Flesh;" and 
the collection-boxes of the Scotland Bible 
Society are set in the railroad stations; and 
Reverend Doctor Arnot, last Sabbath, at 
the close of his sermon, turned around and 
bowed to the judges of the court seated in 
the gallery; and over a door in "Lady 
Stair's Close" is the inscription, "Fear the 
Lord and depart from evil." In this city, 
acutest analysis could hardly tell where 
literature or politics ends or theology be- 
gins. But since the brain and the heart 
are only about a foot and a half apart, I 
know not why there should be such effort 
to separate the intellectual from the spirit- 
ual. All frank and intense writers on 
secular themes have given us a glimpse of 
their higher faith. We know the theology 
of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Thomas 
Babington Macaulay and William C. 
Bryant as well as that of Jonathan Edwards 



io8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

and Archibald Alexander. There is no 
need that the literati of the world go dodg- 
ing" and skulking about the pillars of St. 
Paul as though ashamed to be found there. 

Reaching from Edinburgh Castle, 
throned on the rocks, down under the city 
to the Abbey of Holyrood, there is an un- 
derground passage six hundred years old. 
Queen Victoria, some years since, offered 
a large reward to any man who would ex- 
plore that passage. The poor fellow who 
undertook it choked to death in the damps 
and gases, and the Queen withdrew her 
inducement, lest some one else should 
perish in the undertaking. I would that 
the way between the castle of beauty and 
strength, and the abbey of religion, in all 
ages, were not a dark tunnel difficult of ex- 
ploration, but a brilliant causeway, and 
that we all might walk there. 

Let Science and Piety walk with hooked 
arms in the hall of the university, and ivy 
climb over the cathedral wall, and every 
church belfry be an observatory, and learn- 
ing and goodness be so thoroughly inter- 
twined and interlocked that every man 
shall be both philosopher and Christian. 
Then Galileo will not only see that "the 
world moves," but that it moves in the 
right direction; and the gowned professors 
of the academy and the surpliced officials 
of the chapel will unite their strength to 



Edinburgh as a Brai7i-Stimula?it. 109 

shorten the distance between the castle and 
the abbey. 

At this summer season, Edinburgh sleeps 
under a very thin covering of shadows. 
There is no night there. At ten o'clock p. m. 
I walked up on Calton Hill, and saw 
the city by daylight. And the evening and 
morning were the same day. The Amer- 
ican is perplexed as to what time he ought 
to retire, and at four o'clock in the morn- 
ing springs out of bed, feeling that he must 
have overslept, till he looks at his watch. 
The day and the night are here twin sis- 
ters — the one a blonde, the other a bru- 
nette. At this season, when tourists are 
most busy, the curtain does not fall on 
Edinburgh. 

The city has been compressed into small 
compass, so that it might be under the de- 
fence of the guns of the Castle. A house 
ten stories high is not an unusual thing. 
There are no ''magnificent distances." It 
is but two minutes' walk from the Nether- 
bow to the Canongate. It is only ten min- 
utes' ride from Holyrood to the Castle. In 
one short saunter you go from examining 
the Scottish crown in the "Jewel-room" on 
the Hill, down to the museum, in which 
you see the stool that Jenny Geddes threw 
at the head of the bishop. 

The city has a superb belt of what the 



no Crtwibs Swept Up. 

Scotch have chosen to call "Hospitals." 
They are not places where fractures are 
splintered, or physical diseases assaulted; 
but are educational institutions. Consider- 
ing ignorance a horrible sickness — the 
wasting away of a marasmus, the benumb- 
ing of a palsy, the sloughing off of a gan- 
grene — public charity has erected these 
''Hospitals" for the cure of intellectual 
malady. 

A printer of the city gave one million 
fifty thousand dollars for the building and 
maintenance of one of these institutions, 
where two hundred and twenty poor chil- 
dren are taught. The structure is vast and 
imposing; battlemented and towered, and 
embosomed in foliage and flowers — 
strength in the arms of beauty, without 
being shorn of any of its locks. 

The John Watson's Hospital, the 
Orphan Hospital, the Gillespie Hospital, 
the Merchant Maiden Hospital, the George 
Heriot Hospital — the surplusage of be- 
quests not yet employed, and seemingly 
not needed for structures of the same char- 
acter — show how much the people hate 
darkness and love light. God gave to 
Edinburgh, as to Solomon, the choice of 
riches, honor, or wisdom. She chose wis- 
dom; and the riches and the honor have 
been thrown in as a bounty. While the 
antiquarian stands studying the grotesque 



Edinburgh as a Brain-Stimidani. 1 1 1 

gargoyles which frown and mow and run 
out the tongue from the venerable roofs 
and arches of the city, I see more to ad- 
mire in the chubby faces of the educated 
children. 

But, while Edinburgh is preparing for a 
grand future, she is not willing that her 
head shall fall back into the shadows. With 
a tight grip of fingers in bronze and stone 
she holds on to the men of the past. She 
has for the last thirty years been building 
monuments, and she will keep on building 
them. As she denied the request of the 
Queen that Dr. Simpson be buried in 
Westminster Abbey, Edinburgh will not 
now put on the limits the sculptors who 
perpetuate him. Walter Scott alive, hob- 
bling along the Grassmarket, made not so 
much impression on this city as to-day, 
looking down on Princess Street, from un- 
der a canopy of stone, one hundred and 
ninety feet high, the dog Bevis at his feet; 
while breaking out in sculpture on the 
sides are the "Last Minstrel," and "Lady 
of the Lake," and Meg Merrilies, the queen 
of witches, with her long skinny arms 
seeming to marshal all the apparitions of 
ghostdom. 

Here dwelt Alexander Smith, destroyed 
by his own mental activity, the fire of his 
genius consuming not only the sacrifice 
but the altar; and Hugh Miller, who with 



112 Crumbs Swept Up, 

his stone chisel cut his way into the mys- 
teries of the earth and the heart of nations; 
and Playfair, and Dugald Stewart, and 
Henry Mackenzie, and Doctor Blair, and 
Thomas de Quincy. Here Christopher 
North put on his "sporting-jacket," out of 
the pockets of which he pulled for many of 
us Windermere and the Highlands; his 
swarthy figure in bronze, now standing in 
the East Gardens, his hair looking like the 
toss of a lion's mane, his eye wild as a 
stormy night on the moors, his apparel as 
sloven as his morals. 

But these men were of the past. The 
harvest of giants has been reaped. Edin- 
burgh has but two or three men of world- 
wide fame remaining. Doctor John 
Brown, author of ''Rab and his Friends," 
may still be found on Rutledge Street; but 
he has dropped his royal pen, and has no 
more "Spare Hours" for the reading pub- 
lic, now that he gives his entire time to his 
medical profession. If the dogs, whose 
greatest champion he is, knew that he had 
abandoned their cause, they would set up 
a universal howl, and the spirit of "Rab" 
would come forth to haunt him, wagging 
before him that immortal stump of a tail. 
Though the Doctor has sent his dogs scam- 
pering through every American study, and 
through many a lady's parlor, he has no 
dog left. His last one, Kent by name, was 



Edinburgh as a Brain- Stimulant, 113 

so much in danger of being contaminated 
by the more vulgar dogs of the city, that 
he was sent over to Ireland to be com- 
panion and defender to the Doctor's mar- 
ried daughter. A large portrait of "Kent" 
hangs over the parlor mantel on Rutledge 
Street. You would not wonder that all 
Doctor Brown's dogs have been so kind 
and wise and good, if you only knew their 
master. 

It seems that in one case, at least, his 
plea for unhappy curs has been effectual. 
Eleven years ago a poor and unknown man 
was buried in Gray Friars Churchyard. 
His dog, *'Bobby," a Scotch terrier, was 
one of the mourners. Next day he was 
found lying on the grave; but, as nothing 
but bronze or stone dogs are lawful in such 
places, Bobby was kicked out of the yard. 
The second morning he was found there, 
and was still more emphatically warned to 
give up his melancholy habits. But when, 
the third morning, he was found on the 
grave, the old curator had compassion, and 
ever since the bereft creature has been 
taken care of. For years he was allowed 
steaks from an officer of the city. I wish 
that all the dogs that live on Government 
were as worthy. 

We take the train from Edinburgh with 
a heavy heart. We need a year to study 
this city of the past and the present — its 



114 Crumbs Szvept Up. 

crescents, and mansions, and squares, and 
monuments, and palaces; a city which 
hovers above crags, and dives into ravines, 
and cHmbs precipices, and shimmers in the 
blaze of midsummer noon, and rolls upon 
the soul a surge of associations that break 
us down into a heartfelt prayer for the 
peace and happiness of Scotland. 



-)o(- 



HOBBIES. 

We all ride something. It is folly to ex- 
pect us always to be walking. The cheap- 
est thing to ride is a hobby: it eats no oats, 
it demands no groom, it breaks no traces, 
it requires no shoeing. Moreover, it is 
safest: the boisterous outbreak of chil- 
dren's fun does not startle it; three babies 
astride it at once do not make it skittish. 
If, perchance, on some brisk morning it 
throw its rider, it will stand still till he 
climbs the saddle. For eight years we have 
had one tramping the nursery, and yet no 
accident; though meanwhile his eye has 
been knocked out and h?s tail dislocated. 

When we get old enough to leave the 
nursery we jump astride some philosophic, 
metaphysical, literary, political, or theolog- 
ical hobby. Parson Brownlow's hobby was 
the hanging of rebels; John C. Calhoun's, 



Hobbies. 115 

South Carolina; Daniel Webster's, the 
Constitution; Wheeler's, the sewing-ma- 
chine; Doctor Windship's, gymnastics. 
For saddle, a book; for spur, a pen; for 
whip, the lash of public opinion; for race- 
course, platform, pulpit, newspaper-ofhce, 
and senate chamber. Goodyear's hobby 
was made out of india-rubber, Peter Coop- 
er's out of glue, Townsend's out of sarsa- 
parilla bottles, Heenan's out of battered 
noses. De Witt Clinton rode his up the 
ditch of the Erie Canal, Cyrus Field under 
the sea, John P. Jackson down the railroad 
from Amboy to Camden; indeed, the 
men of mark and the men of worth 
have all had their hobby, great or 
small. The philosophy is plain. Men 
think a great while upon one topic, and its 
importance increases till it absorbs every- 
thing else, and, impelled by this high ap- 
preciation of their theory, they go on to 
words and deeds that make themselves 
thoroughly felt. We have no objections to 
hobbies, but we contend that there are 
times and places when and where they 
should not be ridden. A few specifications. 
We have friends who are allopathists, 
homoeopathists, Thompsonians, or eclec- 
tics. We have no more prejudices against 
one school than the other. Let them each 
set up their claims. One of our friends 
about five years ago became a homoe- 



ii6 C7'U7?ibs Swept Up. 

opathist. All right! But since then she has 
been able to talk of nothing else. She in- 
sists on our taking the pellets. We say, 
"We feel somewhat tired to-night;" she ex- 
claims, "Cinchona or Cocculus!" We 
sneeze quite violently, and she cries ''Bella- 
donna!" We suggest that the apple-dump- 
ling did not agree with us, and she pro- 
poses "Chamomilla." When she walks I 
seem to hear the rattling of pellets. Dis- 
covering my prejudice against pills, she 
insists on my taking it in powder. I tell 
her that ever since my chaplaincy in the 
army I have disliked powder. She says I 
will rue it when too late. Perhaps I may, 
but I cannot stand these large doses of 
homoeopathy. I had rather be bled at 
once and have done with it, than be ever- 
lastingly shot with pellets. She talks it day 
and night. Her Sabbath is only a sancti- 
fied homoeopathy. She prefers theology in 
very small doses. Her hope of the refor- 
mation of society is in the fact that minis- 
ters themselves are sinners — "Similia 
similibus curantur.'' She thinks it easier 
for a camel to go through the eye of a 
needle, than for old-school doctors to enter 
into the kingdom of heaven. Alas! how 
much calomel and jalap they will have to 
answer for! How will they dare to meet on 
the other shore the multitudes that they 
let slip before their time, when they might 



Hobbies. 117 

with a few pellets have bribed Charon to 
keep them this side of Acheron and Styx! 
She reads to us 2 Chron. xvi. 12, 13, "Asa 
sought to the physicians, and slept with 
liis fathers." You see they killed him! She 
considers herself a missionary to go out 
into the highways and hedges of allopathy 
and eclecticism to compel them to come in. 
She is an estimable lady. We always like 
to have her come to our house. She is 
more interested in your health than any 
one you would find in all the hard-hearted 
crew of allopathy. But five years ago she 
got a side-saddle, threw it on the back of a 
hobby, and has been riding ever since — 
tramp, tramp, tramp — round the parlor, 
through the hall, up the stairs, down the 
cellar, along the street, through the church; 
and I fear that in her last ''will and testa- 
ment" she will have nothing to leave the 
world but a medicine-chest, well-worn 
copies of "Hahnemann's Chronic Dis- 
eases," and ''J^hr's Manual," and direc- 
tions as to how many powders are to be put 
in the tumblers, with the specific charge to 
have the spoons clean and not mix the 
medicines. 

We notice that many have a mania for 
talking of their ailments. One question 
about their health will tilt over on you the 
great reservoir of their complaints. They 
have told the story so often that they can 



ii8 Cru?7ibs Swept Up. 

slide through the whole scale from C above 
to C below. For thirty years their spine has 
been at a discount, and they never were 
any better of neuralgia, till they took the 
rheumatism. At first you feel sympathy 
for the invalid; but after awhile the story 
touches the ludicrous. They tell you that 
they feel so faint in the morning, and have 
such poor appetite at noon, and cannot 
sleep nights, and have twitches in their 
side, and lumbago in their back, and swell- 
ings in their feet, and ringing in their ears, 
and little dots floating before their eyes; 
and have taken ammoniacum, tincture of 
cantharides, hydragogue julep, anthel- 
mintic powder, golden syrup of antimony, 
leaves of scordium, and, indeed, all hepa- 
tics, carminatives, antifebriles, 'antiscor- 
butics, splenetics, arthritics, stomachics, 
ophthalmics; they have gargled their throat 
with sal ammoniac, and bathed their back 
with saponaceous liniment, and worn dis- 
cutient cataplasms. That very moment 
they are chewing chamomile flowers to set- 
tle their stomachs, and excuse themselves 
for a moment to take off a mustard-plaster 
that begins to blister. They come back to 
express the fear that the swelling on their 
arm will be an abscess, or their headache 
turn to brain fever. They shake out from 
their handkerchief delicate odors of vale- 
rian and assafoetida. They are the harvest 



Hobbies. 119 

of druggists, and the amazement of phy- 
sicians, who no sooner clear the pain from 
one spot than it appears in another. If one 
joint loses the pang, another joint gets it, 
and, the patient having long ago resolved 
never again to be well, it is only a question 
between membrane and midriff. 

At times we should talk over our dis- 
tresses, and seek sympathy, but perpetual 
discourse on such themes wears out the 
patience of our friends. You always see 
the young people run from the groaning 
valetudinarian; and the minister fails in his 
condolence, for why speak of the patience 
of Job to one who says that boils are noth- 
ing to his distresses? The hobby he rides 
is wounded and scabbed and torn with all 
the diseases mentioned in farriery, glan- 
ders, bots, foot-rot, spavin, ring-bone, and 
"king's evil." Incurable nags are taken 
out on the commons and killed, but this 
poor hobby jogs on with no hope on the 
other side of the Red Sea of joining 
Pharaoh's horses. The more it limps, and 
the harder it breathes, the faster they ride it. 

Now, Aunt Mary's sick-room was the 
brightest room in the house. She had 
enough aches and pains to confound 
Materia Medica. Her shelf was crystallized 
with bottles, and the stand was black with 
plasters. She could not lay down more 
than five minutes. Her appetite was de- 



I20 Crumbs Swept Up. 

nied all savory morsels. It was always 
soup, or toast, or gruel, or panado. She 
had not walked into the sunlight for fif- 
teen years. Weddings came, for which 
with her thin, blueveined hands she had 
knit beautiful presents, but she could not 
mingle in the congratulations, nor see how 
the bride looked at the altar. She never 
again expected to hear a sermon, or sit at 
the sacrament, or join in the doxology of 
worshipers. The blithe days of her girl- 
hood would never come back, when she 
could range the fields in spring-time in 
flushed excitement, plucking handfuls of 
wild-roses from the thicket till hands and 
cheeks looked like different blooms on the 
same trellis. 

While quite young she had been sent to 
a first-class boarding-school. When she 
had finished her education, she was herself 
finished. Instead of the romp of the fields, 
she took the exhausting exercise at five 
o'clock of the school procession, madame 
ahead; madame behind; step to step; eyes 
right; chins down; noses out; their hearts 
like muffled drums beating funeral 
marches. Stop the side glances of those 
hazel eyes! Quit the tossing of those flaxen 
curls! Cease that graceful swing of the 
balmoral across the street gutter! 

She was the only one of the family for- 
tunate enough to get a first-class educa- 



Hobbies. 121 

tion. The other females grew up so stout 
and well, they might have been consid- 
ered, vulgarly speaking, healthy, and went 
out into life to make happy homes and help 
the poor; only once, and that in the pres- 
ence of a wound they were dressing, hav- 
ing attempted to faint away, but failed in 
the undertaking, as their constitution 
would not allow it. Thus they always had 
to acknowledge the disadvantage of not 
having had the first-class education of 
Aunt Mary. What if her nerves were worn 
out, she could read Les Aventnres de Tele- 
maqtie to pay for it. She had sharp pains, 
but she could understand the Latin phrases 
in which Dr. Pancoast described them. 
Her temples throbbed, but then it was a 
satisfaction to know that it came from be- 
ing struck on the head with a Greek lex- 
icon. The plasters were uncomfortable, 
but oh! the delights of knowing their 
geometrical shape: the one a pentagon, the 
other a hexagon. At school in anatomical 
class she had come to believe that she had 
a liver, but it had been only a speculative 
theory; now she had practical demonstra- 
tion. 

Enough to say. Aunt Mary was a life- 
long invalid, and yet her room was more 
attractive than any other. The children 
had to be punished for going up stairs and 
interrupting Auntie's napping hours. The 



122 Crumbs Swept Up. 

kitten would purr at the invalid's door seek- 
ing admittance. At daybreak, the baby 
would crawl out of the crib and tap its tiny 
knuckles against the door, waiting for 
Aunt Mary to open it. If Charlie got from 
a school-fellow a handful of peaches, the 
ripest was saved for Auntie. At night-fall, 
a little procession of frisky night-gowns 
went up to say their prayers in Auntie's 
room, until three years of age supposing 
that she was the divinity to be worshiped: 
one hand on their foot, and the other over 
their eyes, that would peep through into 
Auntie's face during the solemnities, the 
"forever and ever, amen," dashed into 
Auntie's neck with a shower of good-night 
kisses. 

When a young maiden of the neighbor- 
hood had a great secret to keep, she was 
apt to get Aunt Mary to help her keep it. 
Auntie could sympathize with any young 
miss who at the picnic had nice things said 
to her. Auntie's face had not always been 
so wrinkled. She had a tiny key to a little 
box hid away in the back part of the top- 
drawer, that could have revealed a romance 
worth telling. In that box a pack of letters 
in bold hand directed to Miss Mary Tyn- 
dale. Also, a locket that contained a curl 
of brown hair that had been cut from the 
brow of the college student in whose death 
her brightest hopes were blasted. Also, 



Hobbies. 123 

two or three pressed flowers, which the last 
time she was out she brought from the 
cemetery. When in conversation with a 
young heart in tender mood she opened 
that box, she would say nothing for some 
moments after. Then she would look very 
earnestly into the eyes of the maiden, and 
say, ''God bless you, my dear child! I 
hope you will be very happy!" 

Everybody knew her by name, and peo- 
ple who had never seen her face, the black 
and white, the clean and filthy, those who 
rode in coaches, and those who trudged 
the tow-path, would cry out when one of 
the family passed, "How is Aunt Mary to- 
day?" On Monday morning the minister 
would go in, and read more theology in the 
bright face of the Christian invalid than he 
had yesterday preached in two sermons, 
and her voice was as strengthening to him 
as the long-metre Doxology sung to the 
tune of "Old Hundred." When people 
with a heartache could get no relief else- 
where, they came to that sick-room and 
were comforted. Auntie had another key 
that did not open the box in the back part 
of the top-drawer of the bureau: it was a 
golden key that opened the casket of the 
Divine promises. Beside the bottles that 
stood on Auntie's shelf, was God's bottle in 
which He gathers all our tears. God had 
given to that thin hand the power to un- 



124 Crumbs Swept Up. 

loose the captive. And they who went in 
waiHng came out singing. John Bunyan's 
pilgrim carried his burden a great while: 
he never knew Auntie. 

Yes ! yes ! the brightest room in the house 
was hers. Not the less so on the day when 
we were told she must leave us. That one 
small room could not keep her. She heard 
a voice bidding her away. The children 
broke forth into a tumult of weeping. The 
place got brighter. There must have been 
angels in the room. The feet of the celes- 
tial ladder were on both sides of that pil- 
low. Little Mary (named after her aunt) 
said, "Who will hear me say my prayers 
now?" George said, "Who now will take 
my part?" Katie cried, "Who will tell us 
sweet stories about heaven?" Brighter and 
brighter grew the place. Angels in the 
room! Sound no dirge. Toll no bells. 
Wear no black. But form a procession of 
chants, anthems, chorals, and hallelujahs! 
Put vs^hite blossoms in her hand! A white 
robe on her body! White garlands about 
her brow! And he, from whose tomb she 
plucked the flowers the last time she was 
out, come down to claim his bride. And so 
let the procession mount the hill, chants, 
anthems, chorals, and hallelujahs: For- 
ward! the line of march reaching from en- 
chanted sick-room to "house of many man- 



Hobbies. 125 

So Auntie lived and died. Always sick, 
but always patient. Her cheerfulness un- 
horsed black-mailed Gloom. A perpetual 
reproof she was to all who make sicknesses 
their hobby. 

We take a step farther, and look at 
some of our theological hobbies. This is the 
only kind of horse that ministers can afford 
to own, and you ought not to be surprised 
if sometimes in this way they take an air- 
ing. We have had some troubles of late in 
fact that in these days of brotherhood, Old 
School and New School got astride of the 
same hobby, and one fell ofif before, and the 
other fell of¥ behind. There was not room 
enough for so many between mane and tail. 
It is well to remember that hobbies some- 
times kick, and that theologians, like other 
people, are vulnerable. 

How apt we are to get a religious theory, 
and ride it up hill and down, and expect 
that all the armed cavalry of the church 
shall make way for our hobby! There are 
theologians who spend their time in trying 
to douse Baptists, thinking it a great waste 
to have so much water and not use it for 
some decisive purpose. Others would like 
to upset the anxious bench of the Meth- 
odists, and throw them on their faces, so 
that they would make less noise. Others 
would like nothing better than to rip a hole 
in the surplice of Episcopacy. Others take 



126 Crumbs Swept Up, 

the doctrine of ''election" for their favor- 
ite theory, and ride, and ride, till they find 
themselves elected to leave the settlement. 
Others harp on the ''perseverance of the 
saints," till they are unhorsed by the per- 
severance of sinners. And this good man 
devotes himself to proving that in Adam 
all fell, till the hearers wish that the 
speaker had fallen clear out of their ac- 
quaintanceship. 

This ecclesiastic gives his time to con- 
troversy, and his matin and vesper are, 
"Blessed be the Lord, who teacheth my 
hands to war and my fingers to fight." 
Such persons were sound asleep that 
Christmas night when the angel song fell 
to the hills, "Peace on earth, good will to 
men." We have been watching for the 
horns to come out on their forehead. They 
are the rams and the he-goats. They feel 
that they were appointed from eternity to 
stick somebody, and they beat Samson in 
the number of Philistines they slay with 
the same weapon. They go to the Bible 
as foemen to Springfield Armory or Troy 
Arsenal, demanding so many swords, rifles, 
and columbiads. They were made in the 
same mould as Morrissey, the pugilist, and 
should long ago have been sent to Con- 
gress. Like Nebuchadnezzar, they have 
claws, and, like him, ought to go to grass. 
In the day when the lamb and the lion lie 



Hobbies. 127 

down together, we fear these men will be 
out with a pole trying to stir up the ani- 
mals. 

Here are brethren who devote them- 
selves to the explaining of the unexplain- 
able parts of the Scripture. Jonah's whale 
comes just in time to yield them whole bar- 
rels of blubber. They can explain why it 
was that Jonah was not digested by the 
whale. The gastric juice having no power 
to act upon a living body, it did not dis- 
solve the fibrine or coagulated albumen into 
chyme, and consequently it could not pass 
the pyloric orifice of the stomach. Besides, 
this was an intelligent whale, and probably 
knew that he had swallowed a minister who 
had a call to Nineveh, and never had any 
intention of turning him into whale, but 
rather to prepare him for that class of min- 
isters who are lachrymose, and on ajl oc- 
casions disposed to blubber. We have 
heard men explain this miracle by natural 
laws until we felt ourselves attacked by the 
same sickness that disturbed the leviathan 
of the Mediterranean when he suddenly 
graduated the prophet; and we felt sure 
that if, in an unguarded moment, we had 
swallowed a Jonah, he would have had 
good prospects of speedy deliverance. 

Our expounder must also explain the ass 
that spake to Balaam. The probability is 
that the animal had originally been en- 



128 Crumbs Swept Up, 

dowed with powers of vocalization, but, 
being of a lethargic temperament, had 
never until that day found sufficient induce- 
ment to express himself; the probability 
being that this animal always retained the 
faculty of speech, and was married, and 
that he has a long line of descendants, who 
still, like the one of the Scriptures, are dis- 
posed to criticise ministers. 

Here is another brother who devotes 
forty Sundays of the year to the Apoca- 
lypse. He has put his lip to all the trum- 
pets and examined all the vials. He un- 
derstands them all. He reads the history 
of the present day in Revelation, and finds 
there Louis Napoleon, Bismarck, Abraham 
Lincoln, and General Grant. 

Now, all Scripture is to be expounded as 
far as possible; but one part is not to 
absorb attention to the neglect of others. 
Let us not be so pleased with the lily that 
Christ points out in his sermon that we 
cannot see the raven that flies past; nor 
while we examine the salt to find if it has 
lost its savor, forget to take the candle 
from under the bushel. The song of the 
morning stars at the creation must have re- 
sponse in the Doxology of the hundred 
and forty and four thousand. David's harp 
and the resurrection trumpet are accord- 
ant. The pennon swung from the cedar 
masts of ships of Tarshish must be an- 



Hobbies. 129 

swered by the sail of fishing--boat on 
Gennesaret. Into this great battle for God 
we are to take Gideon's sword, and David's 
sling, and the white horse of Victory on 
which Immanuel triumphs. Hiddekei and 
Jordan must be confluent. Pisgah and 
Moriah, Sinai and Calvary, must all stand 
in the great Scriptural ranges. No solo or 
quartet in this Bible music, but the bat- 
tle-chorus of all the patriarchs, prophets, 
evangelists, and apostles. In the wall of 
heaven are beautifully blended jasper and 
emerald, beryl and sardonyx, amethyst and 
chrysoprasus. No one doctrine, however 
excellent, must be ridden constantly. The 
pulpit is the most unfit place in all the 
world for a hobby. 

With others the continuous theme is 
ventilation. We have wrecked too many 
sermons and lectures on ill-ventilated au- 
dience-rooms, not to understand the value of 
pure air. There are not twenty properly 
ventilated lecture-halls east of the Alle- 
gheny Mountains. We have more venera- 
tion for every other antiquity than for stale 
air. Atmosphere that has been bottled up 
for weeks is not quite equal to ''Balm of 
Thousand Flowers." Give us an old log 
across the stream to sit on, rather than an 
arm-chair in the parlor that is opened 
chiefly on Christmas and Thanksgiving 
Days.^ While waiting for this year's turkey 



130 Crumbs Swept Up. 

to get browned, we do not want to smell 
last year's. There are church-basements so 
foul that we think some of those who fre- 
quent them for devotion get sooner to the 
end of their earthly troubles than they 
would if there were less dampness in the 
walls; some of them suffering from what 
they suppose to be too much religion, when 
it is nothing but wind-colic. Still we may 
put too long a stress upon ventilation. 
Here is a man who sits with the doors open, 
and while your teeth are chattering with 
cold, descants on the bracing weather. He 
sleeps with all his window^s up, with the 
thermometer below zero. His prescription 
for all the world's diseases is fresh air. And 
if the case be chronic, and stubborn, and 
yields not to the first course of treatment, 
then — more fresh air. If the patient die 
under the process, the adviser will say, 
''This confirms my theory! Don't you see 
the difficulty? His only want was capacity 
to take in the air!" 

Witticism is the hobby of another. We 
admire those who have power to amuse. 
We cannot always have the corners of our 
mouth drawn down. Puns are not always 
to be rejected. We should like to have 
been with Douglas Jerrold when his friend 
said to him, *T had a curious dinner — 
calves' tails." And Jerrold instantly re- 
plied, "Extremes meet!" 



Hobbies. 131 

But we cannot always have the corners 
of our mouth drawn up. We can all of us 
stand humor longer than wit. Humor is 
pervasive; wit explosive. The one smiles; 
the other laughs. Wit leaps out from am- 
bush; humor melts out of a summer sky. 
Wit hath reactions of sadness; humor dies 
into perpetual calm. Humor is an athios- 
phere full of electricity; wit is zigzag light- 
ning. They tx)tli have their mission, but 
how tedious the society of the merry- 
andrew and professed epigrammatist! The 
muscles of your face weary in attempts to 
look pleased. You giggle, and simper, and 
titter, and chuckle, and scream, and slap 
your hand on the table, but you do not 
laugh. You want information, facts, reali- 
ties, as well as fun. Theodore Hook and 
Charles Lamb grinned themselves into 
melancholy. Clowns are apt to be hypo- 
chondriac. The company of two or three 
so-called witty chaps is as gloomy to us as 
the furnishing-room of an undertaker. It 
is the earnest man, with an earnest work 
to do, who in unexpected moment puts the 
pry of his witticism under your soul, and 
sends you roaring with a laughter that 
shuts your eyes, and rends your side, and 
makes you thankful for stout waistcoat, 
which seems to be the only thing that 
keeps you from explosion into ten thou- 
sand quips, quirks, epigrams, repartees, 



132 Crumbs Swept Up. 

and conundrums. Working men have a 
right to be facetious. We have no objec- 
tion to a hen's cackle, if it has first laid a 
large round ^^^ for the breakfast-table. 
But we had on our farm a hen that never 
did anything but cackle. The most rous- 
ing wit ever uttered was by stalwart men 
like Robert South and Jean Paul Richter. 
With them wit was only the foaming flake 
on the wave that carried into port a mag- 
nificent cargo. It was only the bell that 
rang you to a banquet of stalled ox and 
muscovy. But lackaday! if when at the 
ringing of the bell we went to find nothing 
but a cold slice of chuckle, a hash of drol- 
lery, jokes stewed, and jokes stuffed, and 
jokes panned, and jokes roasted, and jokes 
with gravy, and jokes without gravy. Pro- 
fessor Wilson, the peerless essayist, could 
afiford to put on ''Sporting Jacket," and 
mould the snow-ball for the "Bicker of 
Pedmount," and go a picnicking at Win- 
dermere, and shake up into rollicking glee 
Lockhart, Hamilton, Gillies, and his other 
Blackwood cronies, if, in that way refreshed 
for toil, he could come into the University 
of Edinburgh to mould and shape the heart 
and intellect of Scotland, with a magic 
touch that will be felt a thousand years. 
He is the most entertaining man who mixes 
in proper proportions work and play. We 
prefer a solid horse, spirited and full of fire, 



Hobbies, 133 

but always ready to pull: somewhat skit- 
tish on a December morning, but still an- 
swering to the bit: while capable of taking 
you out of the dust of the man who does 
not want you to pass, yet willing to draw 
ship-timber; in preference to a frisky nag 
that comes from the stall sideways, and 
backward, getting up into the stirrups of 
his own saddle, and throwing you off be- 
fore you get on. The first is a useful man*s 
facetiousness; the last is a joker's hobby. 

Pride of ancestry is with others the chief 
mania. Now we believe in royal blood. It 
is a grand thing to have the right kind of 
kindred. There is but little chance for one 
badly born. If we belonged to some fam- 
ilies that we know of, we would be tempted 
at once to give ourselves up to the police. 
But while far from despising family blood, 
we deplore the fact that so many depend 
upon heraldry. They have not been in 
your company a minute before they begin 
to tell you who their father was and their 
mother. The greatest honor that ever hap- 
pened to them was that of having been 
born. It is a congratulation that there was 
but one mechanic in their line, and he 
helped build the first steamboat. They 
were no possible relation to one Simon, a" 
tanner. The only disgraceful thing in 
their line, as far back as they can trace it, 
was that their first parents in Paradise were 



134 Crumbs Swept Up. 

gardeners. There was a big pile of money 
somewhere back, a coat of arms, and sev- 
eral fine carriages. They feel sorry for 
Adam, because he had no grandfather'. To 
hear them talk you would suppose that the 
past was crowded with their great progeni- 
tors, who were lords, and dukes, comrades 
of Wellington, accustomed to slapping 
George Washington on the shoulder, call- 
ing him by the first name; ''hail fellow well 
met" with Thomas Jefferson. As if it had 
taken ten generations of great folks to 
produce one such Smythe. He is no rela- 
tion to Smith. That family spell their name 
differently. But you find that in the last 
seventeen hundred years there were several 
breaks in the broadcloth. Do not say 
anything about their Uncle George. Con- 
found the fellow! He was a blacksmith. 
Nor ask about Cousin Rachel! Miserable 
thing! She is in the poorhouse. Nor in- 
quire about his grandfather's politics. He 
was a Tory. Nor ask what became of his 
oldest brother. He was shot in a hen-roost. 
Several of the family practiced in the High 
Courts of the United States and England — 
as criminals. One of their kindred was a 
martyr to chirography, having written the 
name of John Rathbone & Co. under a 
promissory note, and written it so well that 
John Rathbone & Co. were jealous, and 
seriously objected. But all this is nothing, 



Hobbies. 135 

so long as they spell Smith with a 3; in the 
middle and an e at the end. They have 
always moved in the circle of the Ritten- 
houses, and the Minturns, and the Grin- 
nells, and the Vanderbilts. They talk 
much of their silver plate to everybody 
save the assessor. In the year 1700 they 
had an ancestor that rode in the carriage 
with a duchess. Yet a boy one day had 
the audacity, with a piece of chalk, to erase 
the armorial bearings from the side of their 
coach, and, in allusion to the industrial 
pursuits charged on certain members of 
that high family, sketched in place thereof, as 
coat of arms, a bar of soap and a shoe-last. 
Oh! this awful age of homespun and big 
knuckles! We would all have gone back 
farther than we have in search of ancestral 
stars and garters, crest and scutcheon, but 
we are so afraid of falling into kettles of 
tried tallow, and beds of mortar, and pans 
of dish-water. 

But we are all proud. We slept one 
night at the West in the rustic house of 
President Fillmore's father, in the very bed 
occupied the week before by Daniel Web- 
ster and the President. We felt that we 
must carry ofY from that room a memento. 
Not able to get anything more significant, 
we brought away from the peg in the room 
one of old Mrs. Fillmore's cap-strings. It 
was with no ordinary emotions that, after 



136 Crumbs Swept Up. 

coming down into every-day life, we dis- 
played the trophy. 

Still how distasteful is the companion- 
ship of one who is always on the subject of 
his high associations and honored ances- 
try. We get vexed, and almost wish that 
their ancestors had been childless. At pro- 
per times and to proper degree let such 
themes be discussed, but what a folly to 
be on all occasions displaying Mrs. Fill- 
more's cap-strings! It is an outrageous 
case of cruelty to animals when a man per- 
sists in having all his progenitors join him 
in riding the ancestral hobby. 

Now it so happened that on one occasion 
all these hobbyists met on one field. What 
a time! Ten hobbies riding against each 
other in cavalry charge! Each rider was 
determined to carbine all the others. The 
allopathist loaded his gun with blue pills; 
the homoeopathist loaded his with Pulsatilla 
and stramonium. The hypochondriac un- 
sheathed his sharpest pains for the onset. 
The temperance monomaniac struck right 
and left with an ale-pitcher. The tobacco 
fanatic threw snufY into the eyes of those 
who could not see as he did. The contro- 
versialist and critic hung across the sad- 
dle a long string of scalps they had taken. 
The buffoon bespattered the whole regi- 
ment with a volley of poor jokes. And the 
man of distinguished ancestry attempted to 



Hobbies. 137 

frighten the combatants from the field by 
riding up with a hobby that had on its back 
the resurrected skeletons of all his fore- 
fathers. 

Too much hobby-riding belittles the 
mind, distorts the truth, and cripples in- 
fluence. All our faculties were made for 
use. He who is always on one theme can- 
not give full play to judgment, imagina- 
tion, fancy, reason, wit, and humor. We 
want harmony of intellect — all the parts 
carried, treble, alto, tenor, and bass accom- 
panied by full orchestra, sackbut, violon- 
cello, cornet, drum, flute, and cymbals. He 
who goes through life using one faculty, 
hops on one foot, instead of taking the 
strong, smooth gait of a healthy walker. 
He who, finding within him powers of 
satire, gives himself up to that, might as 
well turn into a wasp and go to stinging 
the bare feet of children. He who is 
neglectful of all but his imaginative faculty, 
becomes a butterfly flitting idly about till the 
first "black frost" of criticism kills it. He who 
devotes himself to fun-making, will find the 
better parts of his soul decaying, and his 
temporary attractiveness will be found to 
be the phosphorescence of rotten wood. 
He who disports himself in nothing but 
dialectics and mathematics, will get badly 
hooked by the horns of a dilemma, and 
after a while turn into trapezoids and paral- 



138 Crumbs Swept Up. 

lelograms — his head a blackboard for dia- 
grams in spherical geometry — and, while 
the nations are dying, and myriad voices 
are crying for help, will find their highest 
satisfaction in demonstrating that if two 
angles on equal spheres are mutually 
equilateral, they are mutually equiangular: 
the flying missiles in a South American 
earthquake to him are only brilliant ex- 
amples in conic sections; the one describ- 
ing a parabola, that an ellipse, the other a 
hyperbola. 

When God has given us so many facul- 
ties to use, why use only one of them? 
With fifty white palfreys to ride, why go 
tilting a hobby? 

He who yields to this propensity never 
sees the whole of anything. There is no 
sin in all the earth but slavery, or intem- 
perance, or municipal dishonesty. All the 
sicknesses would be healed if they would 
take our medicine. The only thing needed 
to make the world what it ought to be, is a 
new pavement on our sidewalk. The na- 
tions are safe as soon as we can bring to an 
end the expectorations of tobacco-juice. 
All that we can see of anything is between 
the leather pricked-up ears of our hobby. 

This frantic urging on of our pet notion 
will come to nought. Our prancing 
charger will sink down with lathered flanks 
and we be passed on the road by some 



Hobbies, 139 

Scotch Presbyterian, astride a plain 
draught-horse that has been pasturing in 
the held next to the kirk, jogging along 
at an easy pace, knowing it has been elected 
that he is to reach the kingdom. 

Brethren! let us take a palm-leaf and 
cool off! Let your hobby rest. If it will not 
otherwise stop, tie it for a few days to ihe 
whitewashed stump of modern conserva- 
tism. Do not hurry things too much. If 
this world should be saved next week, it 
would spoil some of our professions. Do 
not let us do up things too Cjuick. This 
world is too big a ship for us to guide. I 
know from the way she swings from lar- 
board to starboard that there is a 
strong Hand at the helm. Be pa- 
tient. God's clock strikes but once 
or twice in a thousand years; but the 
wheels all the while keep turning. Over 
the caravanserai of Bethlehem, with silver 
tongue, it struck one. Over the University 
of Erfurt, Luther heard it strike nine. In 
the rockings of the present century it has 
sounded eleven. Thank God! It will 
strike twelve! 



■)o(- 



140 Crumbs Swept Up. 

FALLACIES ABOUT THE SEA. 

Every man ought to cross the ocean at 
least once to find how many unwarranted 
things have been said about it. Those who 
on the land have never imperilled their 
veracity by mastodonic statements are so 
metamorphosed by the first stiff breeze off 
Newfoundland, that they become capable 
of the biggest stories. They see billows as 
high as the Alps, and whales long enough 
to supply a continent with spermaceti, and 
have perilous escapes from sudden anni- 
hilation, and see over the gunwales spec- 
tacles compared with which the ''Flying 
Dutchman" is a North River clam-sloop. 

We have not been able to find some 
things that we expected. We have very 
often heard that sea-sickness makes one 
feel that he would like to be thrown over- 
board. One day, on our ship, there were 
near a hundred passengers whose stom- 
achs had turned somersault; but not one 
of these people, as far as we could detect, 
would like to have been pitched over- 
board. Indeed, an effort to deposit these 
nauseated Jonahs on the ''Fishing Banks" 
would have ended fatally to the perpetra- 
tor. We saw not one of the sickest patients 
looking at the sea as though he would like 
to get into it. Those who were most des- 
perate and agonizing in looking over the 



Fallacies About the Sea. 141 

taffrail for the lines of latitude and long-i- 
tude held tight fast, lest some sudden lurch 
of the ship should precipitate them into 
the Canaan of water for which the great 
army of the sea-sick are said to be longing. 

We have also been told, in many well- 
rounded addresses, that the sails of British 
and American commerce ''zvhiten every 
sea." But we have averaged during our 
voyage only about two vessels a day. The 
cry of "Sail — ho!" is so rare a sound that 
it brings all the passengers to their feet. 
The mere ghost of a shroud along the line 
of the sky calls up all the opera-glasses. 
The most entertaining scallops are drop- 
ped from the spoon when, during the din- 
ing-hour, it is announced that a ship passes. 
Let "Fourth -of July" orators steer clear 
of the fall-acy that the sails of our com- 
merce whiten the sea. They make about as 
much impression upon it as a fly crossing 
the ceiling. 

We have been told of the sense of loneli- 
ness, isolation, and almost desolation felt 
when out of sight of land. But we think 
that in a popular steamer such a feeling is 
impossible. We leave a world behind, but 
we take a world with us. A Hamburg 
steamer is a portable Germany. 

The ship in which we sail is Berkeley 
Square and Fifth Avenue. London ends at 
the prow, Broadway begins afc the stern. 



142 Crumbs Swept Up. 

We have on board Fulton Market, and 
Faneuil Hall, and Drury Lane Theatre, 
and Apsley House. We do not any more 
think of how far we are from the shore than 
we do how far the shore is from us. 
Though mid-ocean, we are in the heart of a 
city, and hear feet shuffling, and hammers 
pounding, and wheels turning, and voices 
shouting. 

We have not found any of the monotony 
of the deep. We have not seen an iceberg, 
nor a whale, nor a porpoise, nor a flying- 
fish, nor a water-spout; but in simply 
watching and thinking we have found each 
day so pleasantly occupied that we sor- 
rowed at its speedy termination. 

So many styles of character as come to- 
gether on shipboard are a perpetual study. 
Men by the third day turn inside out. (I 
refer to their characters and not to their 
stomachs.) Their generosity or their 
selfishness, their opulence of resource or 
their paucity, their courage or their cow- 
ardice, are patent. W^hat variety of mis- 
sion! This one goes to claim a large estate; 
this one to cultivate his taste in foreign pic- 
ture-galleries; that one to amass a for- 
tune; this one to see what he can learn. 
On some the time hangs heavily, and they 
betake themselves to the "betting-room." 
Since coming on board, some of them have 
lost all their money by unsuccessful wager. 



Fallacies About the Sea. 143 

Two or three have won everything, and 
the others have lost. They have bet about 
the speed of the ship — bet that it would be 
five hundred and thirty knots a day, bet 
that it would be less, bet that the number 
of miles run would be an even number, bet 
that it would be odd, bet that the pilot com- 
ing aboard would step on with his right 
foot, bet it would be his left, bet that gold 
will be up when we get to Queenstown, 
bet that it would be down, bet every week- 
day, bet on Sunday. 

The surgeon, who read ''prayers" for us 
in the Sabbath service, was one of the 
heaviest losers. I am informed, by a cred- 
ible witness, that he took a bet while we were 
singing the psalm during the religious ser- 
vice which he was conducting. God save 
us from the morals and the physic of such 
a doctor! 

But take them all in all we never dwelt 
among men and w^omen of finer culture, 
and better heart, and nobler life than our 
fellow passengers. We shall be glad for- 
ever that on this crystal path of nations we 
met them. 

The sailors have been to us a perpetual 
entertainment. They are always interest- 
ing, always cheerful, always helpful. Each 
one has a history. Sometimes his life has 
been a tragedy, interspersed with comedy. 
Our heart goes out toward him. In his 



144 Crumbs Swept Up. 

laug-h is the freedom of the sea and the 
wildness of the wind. We can hardly keep 
from laying hold with these sailorboys, as 
they bend to their work singing a strange 
song of which we catch here and there a 
stanza such as: 

Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe! 
Away! Haul away! now we are sober. 
Once I lived in Ireland, digging turf and tatoes, 
But now I'm in a packet-ship a-hauling tacks and 
braces. 

Once I was a waterman and lived at home at ease, 
But now I am a mariner to plough the angry seas. 
I thought I would like a seafaring life, so I bid my 

love adieu, 
And shipped as cook and steward on board the 

Kangaroo. 
Then I never thought she would prove false, 

Or ever prove untrue. 
When we sailed away from Milfred Bay 

On board the Kangaroo. 
Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe. 
Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe. 

We cannot tell the metre of the songs 
they sing by day and night, but we prefer 
to call it "peculiar metre." We wish for 
these men a safe life-voyage, and a calm 
harbor at the last. Heaven give them a 
steady foot while running up the slippery 
ratlines to reef the topsail! 



-)o(- 



'''Stay Where You're Happy.''' 145 

"STAY WHERE YOU'RE HAPPY." 

On board the steamer Java I met an 
English gentleman by the name of Mr. Gale. 
*'And who was Mr. Gale?" you ask. I 
know not, except that he was of so bland a 
nattire I felt he must be a *'gale from 
Heaven." We were leaning over the rail 
of the vessel, watching the first appeanance 
of land — Ireland sending out to meet us 
the "Skelligs," a cross-looking projection, 
like the snarly dog that comes out to sere- 
nade you with a volley of yelps at the gate 
of a friend, or like a dark-browed Fenian 
appearing to challenge the British ships, 
and bid them ''mind their eye," and look 
out how they run ''forninst ould Ireland" — 
when Mr. Gale summed up all his advice 
about European travel in the terse phrase: 

"Mr. Talmage, do not be rushing about 
in Europe, as Americans generally do. 
Stay where you're happy!" 

We set this down as among the wisest 
counsels ever given us, although at the very 
first place we stopped it nearly ruined our 
prospects for seeing anything besides Scot- 
land. 

Americans traveling in Europe are for the 
most part in immensity of perspiration. 
Starting with what they call "the small and 
insignificant island of Great Britain," and 
having adopted the feeling of the Yankee 



146 Crumbs Swept Up. 

who said he thought England a very nice 
Httle island, but he was afraid to go out 
nights lest he should fall of¥, they expect 
to see all Europe in a few days. They 
spend much of their time at depots, in- 
quiring about the next train, or rush past 
Mont Blanc, with no time to stop, chas- 
ing up a lost valise. 

In our company was an American, who 
had five ladies and eight trunks. Getting 
into Switzerland, he let the ladies come on 
to see the mountains, while he went back 
a two days' journey, asking Belgium and 
Germany if they had seen anything of his 
trunks. As he is unacquainted with the 
language, but has learned that Das Gepack 
is the German for *'the luggage," I im- 
agine him going through the streets of 
Heidelberg, Frankfort, and Darmstadt, at 
dead of night, shouting till the people 
throw open the windows expecting a war- 
extra: 

"Das Gepack! Das Gepack!" 

Meanwhile we offered a little cologne to 
one of the unfortunate party bereft of their 
"things," and she refused to take it; and, 
on being urged, blushed, and hemm'd, and 
finally gave as her reason that she had no 
pocket-handkerchief. Alas! her clothes 
by that time were on the way to St. 
Petersburg or Halifax. 

But why sneer at the father and husband 



'''Stay Where You're Happy y 147 

on his errand of mercy scouring Europe 
for his wife's silk dresses? May he be pros- 
pered! If he do not find the chignons, may 
he at least be so happy as to discover the 
pocket-handkerchiefs! What more impor- 
tant than clothes? But for a deficit in this, 
John Gilpin would have been respectable 
and happy, even at the time he could not 
hold his horse. Lack of this is what made 
Eve chilly in Paradise. 

As for ourselves, we carry all our bag- 
gage in our two hands, and yet we have 
two changes of apparel a day; namely, in 
the morning when we put it on, and in the 
night when we take it off. Nobody can 
steal our baggage unless they steal us. 
Often travelers, worn out with unnecessary 
incumbrances, wish they were home. They 
are not happy. They want to go to their 
mother. We found one American tugging 
along with a Swiss cottage nicely boxed 
up, the work of an Interlachen artificer. It 
made us think of looking up a pocket edi- 
tion of Jung-Frau. 

Many of our countrymen are exceeding- 
ly annoyed at their lack of skill in the use 
of the European languages. After a vain 
attempt to make a Parisian waiter under- 
stand French, they swear at him in English, 
But we remembered the art of the physi- 
cian who put all the remains of old pre- 
scriptions in one bottle, — the oil, and the 



148 Criunbs Swept Up. 

calomel, and the rhubarb, and the asafoeti- 
da, — and when he found a patient with 
"complication of diseases," would shake up 
his old bottle and give him a dose. And so 
we have compounded a language for Euro- 
pean travel. We take a little French, and a 
little German, and a little English, with a 
few snatches of Chinese and Choctaw, and 
when we find a stubborn case of waiter or 
landlord that will not understand, we shake 
up all the dialects and give him a dose. It 
is sure to strike somewhere. If we do not 
make him understand, we at any rate give 
him a terrible scare. 

We have not the anxiety of some in a 
strange land about getting things to eat. 
We like everything in all the round of 
diet, except animated cheese and odorous 
codfish; always have a good appetite, 
never in our lives missed a meal save once, 
when we could not get any; and knowing 
that Eine gerostete RiiMcisch Schcibe means 
a beefsteak, Eine Messer a knife, and Eine 
Gabel a fork, and Eine Serviette a napkin, 
after that we feel reckless as to what we 
can or can not get. 

In journeying from country to country, 
the change in the value of coins is apt to 
be inextricable. But guineas, and florins, 
and kreutzers, and double ducats cease to 
be a perplexity to us. We ask the price 
of a thing, look wise as if we knew all 



''Stay Where You're Happy.'' 149 

about it, and then hold out our 
hand and let him take his pick. As 
riches take wings and fly away, we 
are determined to lose nothing in that 
manner. Fifty years from now a Turkish 
piastre will be worth to me as much as a 
Holland guilder; and it worries me not 
when I am cheated, for the man who cheats 
must in the end suffer more than I, so that 
my chagrin is lost in compassion for his 
misfortune. , 

In traveling let us go where we like it 
best, and then be happy. The manufac- 
turer should go to Birmingham and Man- 
chester. The skillful and mighty-handed 
machinery will make an impression upon 
him that he can get from nothing else. Let 
the shipwright traveling in Europe take 
considerable time at the Liverpool docks, 
and watch the odd-looking craft that hover 
about th^ French coast. The philan- 
thropist will busy himself in looking up 
Newman Hall's ''Ragged Schools," and go 
out a few days to Bristol to talk with 
George Muller, and go down to Billings- 
gate to hear the women sell fish with the 
same slang as they did fifty years ago. Let 
the poet go to Grub Street, Cripplegate, 
and, as the cab jostles through the dark 
and filthy street, look out and see the 
places in olden time frequented by hun- 
gry authors, and have his sensibilities 



150 Cnimbs Swept Up. 

shocked at finding that John Milton's 
house, in which "Paradise Lost" was writ- 
ten, is now a soap factory. 

If a man be fond of a fine horse, and 
wants to see the perfection of neck, and 
hoof, and back, and fianks, tamed thunder- 
bolts controlled by caparisoned drivers, let 
him g-o out every clear evening, at six 
o'clock, to Hyde Park, or into the Royal 
Mews, back of Buckingham Place, and see 
the one hundred and sixty-eight white and 
bay horses that wait the Queen's bidding. 
It is folly for a blind man to go to see 
Gieseback Falls, or a deaf one to hear the 
Freybourg organ, or a man whose lifetime 
reading has been con^ned to the almanac 
and his own ledger to spend much time in 
the Reading Room of the British Museum. 
Stay only where ycm're happy! 

At the hotel in Antwerp, sitting at the 
table at the close of a day that had been to 
me a rapture among picture-galleries, a 
man sat down beside me, and said, ''What 
a dull place; there seems nothing going 
on!" He had applied to that exquisite city 
of art the business tests of the Bank of 
England. That was no place for him. Why 
did he ever come out from the shufBe and 
tumult of the London "Strand"? 

Much of the world's disquietude comes 
from the fact that they will not take the 
advice of the Englishman in the words 



''Stay Where You're Happy.'' 151 

heading this chapter. Queen Mary was 
fondled and caressed in France. Courts 
bowed down and worshiped her beauty. 
But she went to Scotland, and Elizabeth 
cut the poor thing's head off. Why did she 
not stay where she was happy? 

Walter Scott had a good home in Castle 
Street, Edinburgh, no debts to pay, all the 
world bringing offerings to his genius. But 
he went up to Abbotsford; must have a roof 
like Melrose Abbey, and the grounds ex- 
tensive as a king's park. He sank his for- 
tune, and roused up a pack of angry cred- 
itors, each one with his teeth at his throat. 
How much better for his peace if he had 
continued in the plain home. Why did he 
not stay where he was happy? 

Maximilian had the confidence of Aus- 
tria, and the richest of all earth's treasures, 
— ^the love of a good woman's heart. He 
gathered up all that he had and went to 
Mexico. A nation of assassins plotted for 
his life. He fell riddled with a crash of 
musketry, and his wife, Carlotta, goes back 
a maniac. They had enough before they 
went. They wanted more. One dead, the 
other crazy! Oh, that ^hey had been wise 
enough to stay where they were happy! 



-)o(- 



152 Crumbs Swept Up. 

STAR ENGAGEMENT. 

One November night, a few years ago, 
there was to be a meteoric display on the 
most magnificent scale. Astronomical 
journals had excited the anticipations ot 
the whole country. 

Indeed, no star ever had more induce- 
ment to shoot Vv^ell than on that night, for 
the audience was immense — gathered at 
windows, on house-tops, and in observa- 
tories. The only objection we had to the 
bill of entertainment was that the doors 
Qpened at a very late hour, and at a time 
when we are usually in a very unimpres- 
sible state of mind. 

We hit upon the following device. We 
hired, by extra inducement, the servant -to 
sit up and watch, and, at the very first indi- 
cation of restlessness on the part of the 
celestial bodies, to thump mightily at our 
dormitory. We placed out hat and shoes 
in places where they could immediately be 
found, and, before the gas went out, 
marked the relative position, both of hat 
and shoes, lest, in the excitement of rising 
up, we might get these articles of apparel 
transposed, and put on at the extremity 
opposite that for which hatter-s and boot- 
makers originally intended them. We slept 
with one eye open, and in a state of expec- 
tancy, such as one feels when he wants to 



Star Engagement. 153 

take an early train, and fears that the alarm- 
clock is disordered. No such meteoric 
display had taken place since we -were a 
year old — an age when our astronomical 
attainments were very limited. Neither 
had our servant witnessed anything of the 
kind, and her ideas were very vague as to 
what would really be the character of the 
entertainment. We warned her as to the 
peril of falling asleep, as when the stars 
really did shoot, they often shot at random. 
It was some time before we could persuade 
her of the necessity of having the gas out 
while watching, for she persisted in the 
idea that you can always see better with a 
light than without it. 

We had fallen into our first nap when 
there was a loud rap at the door, and -we 
gave a bound to the floor. The servan-t 
told us that she had seen one star which 
had been very uncertain in its movements, 
and had crossed lots, wagging a long tail 
of fire. We cried out, *'Do not call us for 
just one star, but wait till they all get 
a-going!" We took another nap and woke 
up, and not hearing anything about the 
celestial disturbances, the wife went in to 
see how the servant was getting on, and 
found her prostrate and insensible! What 
ivas the matter? Had the meteoric display 
taken place, and this innocent one in the 
wild sweep been knocked over, another 



154 Crumbs Swept Up. 

victim of philosophical experiments? No! 
We fovmd that she had been overcome of 
sleep. When roused up, she immediately 
spoke, thus relieving our anxiety in regard 
to the fatality of the occurrence, and her 
first words (showing the ruling passion for 
astronomical investigation still unimpaired) 
were the startling interrogation: ''Have 

THEY SHOT?" 

I concluded to depend on my own watch- 
fulness, and forthwith to look out. Saw 
one "star" in motion, coming up the street 
on two feet, but concluded frcxm his looks 
that he would not shoot imless in case of a 
riot. I gazed intently, and saw no signs of 
motion among the celestials, except a few 
that seemed to twinkle mischievously, as if 
making fun of my white cravat — an article 
I never wear except in case of hasty toilet. 

But the astronomical observation was 
far from being a failure, for in returning 
my head from the open air, I struck it vio- 
lently against the window, and immediately 
saw stars. They f^ew every whither, and, 
what was peculiar, they were of all colors — 
white, black, blue, green, and striped. But 
from the unfavorable impression they pro- 
duced on me at the time, I feel like warn- 
ing people against putting out their heads 
in the night-time, when the meteors are 
carelessly swinging their shillelahs. We 
did not blame the stars, nor the astron- 



Star Engagement. 155 

omers who excited our anticipations, but 
we all felt disappointed. 

MORAL. 

Do not calculate too much upon meteors. 
I would rather have the clear, steady shin- 
ing of a morning star, than all the capers 
that comets cut up. Saturn or Mars is 
more to be depended on than these celestial 
vagrants. The curse of the world is its 
unsanctified geniuses, who go darting 
across the political and ecclesiastical 
heavens just long enough to make the na- 
tions stare, and then go out in darkness. 
We love brilliancy; but let it be that of a 
fixed star — steady, cheerful, regulated. 

In some great crisis of the world's night, 
I have calculated upon the behavior of 
some one of shining capacities, and I have 
gone out to hear what noble things he 
would say, or to see what thrilling deed he 
would do, and what long line of light he 
would stretch across the heavens. But my 
calculations have failed. My disappoint- 
ment was full. Another failure at star- 
shooting. 

The moral world wants fewer comets, 
and more Jupiters; fewer fireflies, and more 
lamps; fewer Jack-o'-the-lanterns to dance 
the swamps, but more evening stars to 
cheer the world's darkness; fewer Lord 
Byrons, and more John Fosters. We 



156 Crumbs Swept Up. 

never knew of but one meteor that went 
forth on a grand mission — the one that ran 
to stand over Bethlehem; and that got all 
its glory from the fact that it pointed to 
the Sun that never sets. Grand thing it 
was, if, on that night in November, in ad- 
dition to our horrible cold, we caught these 
moral reflections. 



■)o(- 



CHILDREN'S BOOKS. 

When our older people were children, 
there was no juvenile literature. If the 
book appetite arose, they were fed on a 
slice of Wilberforce's ''Practical View of 
Christianity," or little tidbits from "Ed- 
wards on the Affections," or were given a 
few nuts to crack from Chalmers's "As- 
tronomical Discourses." Their fathers and 
mothers sighed lest these little ones should 
turn out badly, because they liked ginger- 
snaps better than Westminster Assemblies, 
and would spend their money for marbles 
when it ought to have gone toward fur- 
nishing red flannel shirts for the poor 
heathen children in Kamtchatka. You 
have lost all faith in John Bunyan's veraci- 
ty, and whistled incredulously when you 
came to that story about Apollyon. Pic- 
tures were scarce, and a book was consid- 



Children' s Books. 157 

ered profusely adorned that had at the be- 
ginning a sketch of the author in gown 
and bands, and long hair of powdered 
whiteness, and at the close in ornate letters 
the word Finis, which you were told meant 
The End, although, after wearily reading it 
through, you did not know whether it was 
the end of the book or the end of you. 
You might as well feed your baby on lob- 
ster-salad as at that early age to have been 
©Kpected to digest the books that were set 
before you. 

But now the children's library is filled 
with books of large type, and tasteful vig- 
nettes, and lids ridged, and flowered, and 
scrolled, and columned, and starred with 
all the fascinations of the book-bindery. 
There is now danger that what is called the 
"milk for babes" shall become nothing but 
chalk and water. Many of the Sabbath 
schools are doing much to foster a taste for 
trashy literature. In some of these libraries 
you will find sentimental love-yarns; bi- 
ographies of generals who were very brave, 
and good examples in some respects — 
when they were sober; fairy stories, in 
which the fairies had very loose morals; 
accounts of boys and girls who never lived 
— books in which there is no more religion 
than In "Don Quixote" or "Gulliver's 
Travels." We have been wondering why 
some religious society did not publish a 



158 Criwibs Swept Up. 

nice little edition of "Baron Munchausen," 
with a moral at the end, showing our dear 
little people the danger of tying one's horse 
to the top of a church-steeple. One Sunday 
night your child does not want to go to 
bed. He cries when compelled to go, and 
looks under the bed for some of the reli- 
gious hobgoblins that come out of the Sun- 
day-school library. Religious spooks are 
just as bad as any other spooks. A child 
is just as afraid of Floras, Pomonas, sylphs, 
oreads, and fairies, as of ghosts. The poor 
little darling in the blue sack goes home 
with a book, thinking she has heaven under 
her arm, and, before she gets through read- 
ing the story of love and adventure, feels 
so strange that she thinks she must be get- 
ting lots of religion. 

In the choice of our children's books, let 
us not mistake slops for simplicity, nor in- 
sult our children's tastes by disquisitions 
about "footsy tootsies," or keep informing 
them of the historical fact, which they 
learned a great while ago, that "Mary had 
a little lamb," or assemble the youngsters in 
coroner's jury to clear up the mystery as 
to "who killed cock-robin." If a child has 
no common sense at seven years of age, 
it never will have. 

Have at least one book in your library 
in which all the good children did not die. 
My early impression from Sunday-school 



Children's Books. 159 

books was that religion was very unhealthy. 
It seemed a terrible distemper that killed 
every boy and girl that it touched. If i 
found myself some day better than com- 
mon, I corrected the mistake for fear I 
should die; although it was the general 
opinion that I was not in much danger' 
from over-sanctity. But I do believe that 
children may have religion and yet live 
through it. A strong mustard-plaster and 
a teaspoonful of ipecac will do marvels. 
Timothy lived to grow up, and we are 
credibly informed that little Samuel woke. 
Indeed, the best boys I ever saw, occasion- 
ally upset things and got boisterous, and 
had the fidgets. The goody-goody kind of 
children make namby-pamby men. I 
should not be surprised to find that a colt 
which does not frisk becomes a horse that 
will not draw. It is not religion that makes 
that boy sit by the stove while his brothers 
are out snow-balling, but the ''dumps." 
The boy who has no fire in his nature may, 
after he has grown up, have animation 
enough to grease a wagon-wheel, but he 
will not own the wagon nor have money 
enough to buy the grease. The best boy 
I ever knew, before he went to heaven, 
could strike a ball till it soared out of 
sight, and, in the race, as far as you could 
see, you would find his red tippet coming 
out ahead. Look out for the boy who 



i6o Crumbs Swept Up. 

never has the fingers of a good laugh tickle 
him under the diaphragm. The most 
solemn-looking mule on our place has 
kicked to pieces five dash-boards. 

There are parents who notice that their 
daughter is growing pale and sick, and 
therefore think she must be destined to 
marry a missionary, and go to Borneo, al- 
though the only recommendation she has 
for that position is that she will never be 
any temptation to the cannibals, who, while 
very fond of cold missionary, are averse to 
diseased meat; or, finding their son look- 
ing cadaverous, think he is either going to 
die, or become a minister, considering that 
there is great power of consecration in 
liver complaint, and thinking him doubly 
set apart, who, while presbytery are laying 
their hands on his head, has dyspepsia lay- 
ing its hand on his stomach. 

Oh! for a religious literature that shall 
take for its model of excellence a boy that 
loves God, and can digest his dinner in 
two hours after he eats it! Be not afraid 
to say, in your account of his decease, that 
the day before you lost him he caught two 
rabbits in his trap down on the meadow, or 
soundly thrashed a street-ruffian who was 
trying to upset a little girl's basket of cold 
victuals. I do not think that heaven is so 
near to an ill-ventilated nursery as to a 
good gymnasium. If the church of God 



War to the Knife, i6i 

could trade off three thousand hogsheads 
of rehgious cant for three thousand hogs- 
heads of fresh air and stout health, we 
should be the gainers, but the fellow with 
whom we traded would be cheated merci- 
lessly and for ever. 



■)o(- 



WAR TO THE KNIFE. 

Within a few days I have seen Belgium, 
Switzerland, Prussia, and Germany march- 
ing to their frontiers, the two former for 
armed neutrality, the two latter for bitterest 
war, and before this paragraph reaches the 
United States, you will, by telegraph, have 
heard the first shock of battle. 

Last Sabbath, Brussels had the appear- 
ance of New York city just after the as- 
sault on Fort Sumter. The streets were a 
mass of excited people. Men were flock- 
ing in from the country as volunteers, and 
the soldiers in bright uniform were parad- 
ing Rue de la Madeleine. As we passed up 
the Rhine we saw the fortifications swarm- 
ing with busy men. Strange, that this 
most peaceful of all rivers should be the ob- 
ject of perpetual strife, and that at the 
strife, and that at the sight of its pure, 
bright water, the kings of the earth should 
fall down in hydrophobia of ambition. 



1 62 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Long" before the vineyards that crowd ta 
the lip of this stream shall have purpled 
into ripeness, war will have trodden out its 
vintage of blood. From Mayence to Carls- 
ruhe, on either side the rail-track, are earth- 
works that must have demanded the 
shovels and pickaxes of the entire popula- 
tion. The rail-carriages are filled with 
Frenchmen flying the country, the police 
commanding their departure. The harvests 
of Prussia, which look like those of Lan- 
caster County, Pennsylvania, for luxuri- 
ance, are lodging for lack of a sickle, the 
men having gone to the war. At Cologne,, 
the flowers and curiosities of the city gar- 
dens are being brought into the city so as 
to be under the defence of the fortifications. 

The Prussians are enthusiastic, and 
ready for anything. They are glad that 
the conf^rct has come. They have been for 
years hindered in their enterprise by the 
arrogant behavior of France, and they want 
the matter settled at once and forever. 
Their officers and troops, so far as we have 
seen them, are a class of men that must ex- 
cite the admiration of all who love nobility 
of character. 

They are honest, intelligent, bold; and 
though France, with her great discipline of 
military, may overcome them in the open- 
ing battles. Prussia will never submit to* 
France. 



War to the Knife. 163 

We called long enough to find that even 
lethargic Heidelberg had gone off in the 
excitement, leaving its grand old castle and 
dirty streets for visitors to look at. 

The city of Basle, Switzerland, in which 
we are now stopping, has very nearly sus- 
pended business, for the purpose of seeing 
off her soldier boys, who, this morning at 
daylight, marched under our windows 
through the narrow street, the trumpet 
sounding an air wild, brisk, and strange to 
our ears. The red torrent of patriotism 
rages down these hills and among these de- 
files. Though Belgium and Switzerland 
are armed for neutrality, they are as indig- 
nant at France as is Prussia; and it would 
not require a very grave provocation to 
call them into the great struggle. Where 
the trouble will end, God only knows. 
Until the name of Napoleon comes down 
into the dust, the world cannot have quiet. 
The power of one bad man to tear the 
world's heart to pieces, was never so 
mightily illustrated as at this hour. 

A woman rushed out of the crowd when 
Robespierre died, crying, ''Murderer of 
my children! descend to hell covered with 
the curses of every woman in France!" 
But that is a moderate execration com- 
pared with that which we fear will come 
from all the outraged nations of Europe 
when Napoleon goes — to his uncle. 



164 Crumbs Swept Up. 

There is no more glory in war. In the 
old'en time, when Fitz-James and Roderick 
Dhu met at Coilantogle Ford, and threw 
their wrath int-o combat that crimsoned 
Loch Vennachar, -and made the crags of 
old Ben An and Ben Venue echo with the 
sword-clang, there may have been romance 
and poetry in combat; but with such weap- 
ons as the new contrivance of death w-hich 
France will bring into the battle, war is 
murder, compared with which that perpe- 
trated by the hand of Antoine Probst and 
a Five-Points garroter is innocence unde- 
filed. 

Those who tell us that the millennium is 
about to begin, must have guessed wrong. 
We saw, a few days ago, in the Tower of 
London, an astonishing array of old 
armor, showing what a mif¥ the world has 
been in for five hundred years. But we 
wer-e pleased to see in one room how the 
swords and guns had, by some artistic 
hand, been arranged into representations of 
flowers; ramrods and sabres turned into 
lilies and fuchsias and Scottish bluebells. 
We offered a silent prayer that soon all 
the world's implements of death might so 
blossom. But, alas! now the red dahlia of 
human blood shall paint the grass, and 
instead of the white-fleeced lamb, which 
Edwin Landseer in exquisite picture repre- 
sents as looking into the mouth of the dis- 



Fresh Paint. 165 

mounted gun of war, destruction and woe 
shall belch out of it. 

From the sight of this European tumult 
we turn away to the mountains of Switzer- 
land and hope to look upon Mont Blanc, 
that symbol of the Great White Throne on 
which all the world's wrongs will be 
righted. The uTountain gazes upon a few 
kingdoms, but the Throne will overlook 
France and Prussia and the world and the 
ages. 

)o( 

FRESH PAINT. 

In art, as in everything else, things must 
pass for what they are worth. A feeble pic- 
ture by Orcagna is none the less feeble 
because five hundred years old. I cannot 
admire his ''Coronation of the Virgin,'* 
wherein he sets the angels to playing bag- 
pipes. Even the Scotch Highlander ex- 
pects to put down his squealing instrument 
thrs side of heaven. There is no power in 
the centuries to consecrate a failure. Time 
has a scythe, but no trowel. Age, in the 
abstract, excites not my veneration. I must 
first know whether it is an old saint or an 
old sinner. The worst characteristic about 
some things is their longevity. A newly- 
laid ^^%, boiled just two minutes and a 
half by the watch, and placed on the table 



1 66 Crumbs Swept Up. 

beside a clean napkin, is a luxury to bless 
the palate withal; but some of us remem- 
ber that once in our boarding--house at 
school, we chanced at the morning meal 
to crack the shell of the Pre-Raphaelite 
^^'g, and, without "returning thanks," pre- 
cipitately forsook the table. Antiquity may 
be bad or good. 

As with physical vision, so in mental 
optics there are far-sighted men who can- 
not see things close by, while a quarter of 
a mile away they can tell the time of day 
from the dial on a church steeple. The sul- 
phurous smell in Church's "Cotopaxi" 
makes them cough and sneeze, though, at 
the peril of unhinging their necks from the 
spinal column, they will stand for hours, 
looking straight up at a homely Madonna 
by some ancient Italian, plastered on the 
rotunda of a Brussels cathedral. Having 
no sympathy with those who expend so 
much good-humor on the old masters that 
they have nothing left for moderns, I shall 
speak of recent pictures, at the risk of rub- 
bing against fresh paint. 

Americans, m-ore than any other people, 
Avant to see the paintings of Joseph Wil- 
liam Turner. John Ruskin has devoted 
more than half of his working life making 
that painter more famous. But Ruskin's 
art-criticisms have nowhere been read as 
in the United States, for the reason that 



Fresh Paint. 167 

The Modern Painters is published in a very 
cheap American edition, while the English 
publishers of that book present it only in 
expensive type and with costly illustrations, 
thus keeping it beyond the reach of the 
masses. Though Turner lies beside Joshua 
Reynolds in the Cathedral of St. Paul, and 
his pictures have become the inheritance 
of the British nation, London knows little 
more of him than does New York. 

But nine out of ten of our friends return- 
ing from the National Gallery of England 
express sore disappointment with Turner's 
paintings. They think it strange that his 
canvas should excite the great intellect of 
John Ruskin for fifteen years into a seem- 
ing frenzy of admiration, so that he can 
write or speak of nothing else — enduring, 
in behalf of his favorite artist, all acerbity 
and flagellation, the masters of British and 
foreign schools bedaubing the brilliant 
writer with such surplus of paint as they 
could spare from their own palettes, and 
pursuing the twain with such ferocity, that, 
though the first has hidden from his foes 
behind the marble of the tomb, and his de- 
fender has, in ruined health, retired to Den- 
mark Hill, nevertheless the curses need 
some cooling yet. 

Our first glance at these pictures, cover- 
ing the four walls of two rooms in the gal- 
lery, struck us back with violent disap- 



i68 Crumbs Swept Up. 

pointment. On our last look, on the last 
day of our visit, we felt an overcomirug sad- 
ness that probably we never again should 
find such supernatural power in an artist. 
We say supernatural, for if we believe that 
Jeremiah and r>avid and John had more 
than human power to write, I know not 
why it wouM be wrong to suppose that 
Paul Veronese, and Giotto, and Rem- 
brandt, and West, and William Turner 
were divinely inspired to paint. In the one 
case, it was parchment; in the other, can- 
vas. Here it was ink; there it was colors. 
Now a pen; then a pencil. Was it not the 
same power w^hich handed Raphael's 
"Transfiguration" across four centuries 
that has conveyed to this present time the 
New Testament? I never felt so deeply 
the suffering of the Saviour, when reading 
the description in Luke and John, as when 
standing in the cathedral at Antwerp. 
Looking at the "Crucifixion," by Rubens, I 
was beaten down and crushed in soul, and, 
able to look no more, I staggered out, faint, 
and sick, and exhausted, the sweat drop- 
ping from every pore. 

I will not advocate the supernal inspira- 
tion of any of these men, ancient or mod- 
ern; but must say that the paintings of Wil- 
liam Turner exerted over me an influence 
different from anything I have experienced. 
The change between my first and last look 



Fresh Pahii. 169 

of this British artist is to be explained by 
the change of stand-point. No paintings in 
the world are so dependent upon the posi- 
tion occupied by the spectator. Gazed at 
from ordinary distances, they are insipid, 
meaningless, exaggerated. You feel as if 
they had not be"en done with a pencil, but a 
brot)m. It seems that each one of them 
must have taken two quarts of stufif to 
make it as thick as that. You almost ex- 
pect the colors to drip ofif — you feel like 
taking your handkerchief and sopping up 
the excess. But, standing close up to the 
opposite wall, you see a marked improve- 
ment; yet, even then, the space between 
you and the picture is too small. You 
need to pass through into the next room, 
and then, looking through the doorway, 
fasten your eye on the painting. Six paces 
off, and Turner's ''Decline of Carthage" is 
a vexation; but twenty-two paces oflf, with 
an eye-glass, and Turner's ''Decline of 
Carthage" is a rapture. From the last 
stand-point, looking at "The Spithead," we 
felt like dividing our life into two por- 
tions — that which had occurred before we 
saw Turner and that which might occur af- 
terward. 

This master shifted his style four times. 
Ko one mood lasted him long. So many a 
man looks back, and finds that his life has 
been a series of fits. Perhaps very young 



lyo Crumbs Swept Up. 

in literature, he had a fit Tupperian. Pass- 
ing on a few years, and he was taken with a 
fit Byronian. Getting into calmer waters of 
life, he was attacked with a fit metaphy- 
sical. As might be expected, from being 
out so much in the fog, he took a violent 
fit Carlylean. Then, at the close of life, he 
reviewed his intellectual gyrations; and, 
disgusted with his ramblings, he had a fit 
of common sense, which was such a sudden 
change from anything preceding that it 
killed him. It is easy to trace Turner 
through a variety of artistic spasms, but he 
is always entertaining. 

We cannot forget his "Caligula's Palace;"' 
the magnificence of destruction ; the ages of 
the past looking through the ruined porti- 
cos and shivering on the top of the broken 
marble; the bridge, in its leap across the 
bay, struck with a death of desolation that 
leaves it a skeleton in the way; children 
playing in the foreground, their diminu- 
tiveness and simplicity, by the contrast, 
piling up the height of the towers, and the 
gorgeous pretension of the imperial do- 
main; the sun rising just high enough to 
show that carved pillars of stone belonging 
to a kingly fool are but dust when the 
"Rock of Ages" crashes against them. 

Who can forget the light that Turner 
pours on Venice, the Campanile of San 
Marco, the Dogana — light falling with the 



Fresh Paint. 171 

positiveness of a pebble, but the diffusive- 
ness of a liquid — light that does not strike 
the water and stop there, but becomes 
transfused and intermixed — nay, which, by 
matchless chemistry of color, becomes a 
part of the wave, so that you cannot say 
which is light and which is water: gon- 
dolas variegated, dropping all their hues 
into the wave — gondola above, gondola 
beneath, and moving keel to keel. Light, 
though so subtle that it flies from other 
touch, Turner picked up, nor let it slip 
through his fingers till it touched the can- 
vas. John Martin, the Northumberland 
painter, tried to catch the light, but instead 
thereof caught the fire that burns up many 
of his fine pictures. Turner's light is 
neither a hot element to consume nor a 
lifeless thing that might be called a mere 
pallor on the cheek of the darkness, but so 
natural you hardly know whether it drops 
from the sky-window into the gallery, or 
was kindled by the hand which for twenty 
years has been mouldering in the crypt of 
Saint Paul's Cathedral. 

What water Turner painted! The waves 
of the sea knew him. No man could pour 
such moonlight upon the Thames as he ; or 
could so woll run the hands of the sea up 
and down the sides of a stranded ship; or 
could so sadden the Hellespont with the 
farewell of Lcander; or toss up the water 



172 Crumbs Swept Up. 

in a squall so natural that you know the 
man in the fishing-smack must be sur- 
prised at the suddenness; or so infuriate the 
Channel at Calais that you wish you did 
not, on your way home, have to cross it; 
or could have dropped a ca-stle-shadow so 
softly and yet so deep into a stream. The 
w^ave of William Turner was not, as in 
many pictures, merely wet whitewash, but a 
mingling of brightness and gloom, crystal 
and azure, smoothed down as a calm morn- 
ing tramples it, or flung up ju«t as the 
winds do it. 

Then, all this thrown into a perspective 
so marked, th-at, seeing it for the first time, 
you fe-el that you never before knew what 
perspective was. You can hardly believe 
that the scene he sketches is on the dead 
level of the wall. You get on the bank of 
his river in ^'Prince's HoHday," and follow 
it back through its windings, miles away, 
and after you think you will be compelled 
to stop, you see it still beyond, and when 
you can no more keep the bank, you see in 
still greater distance what you say may be 
cloud, and may be water, but you cannot 
decide. Turner can put more miles within 
a square foot than any one we know of. 
There are always back-doors opening be- 
yond. But his foreshortening is quite as 
rare. Often his fishermen and warriors 
and kings are not between the frame of the 



Fresh Paint. 173 

picture, but between you and the canvas. 
You almost feel their breath on your cheek, 
and stand back to give them room to 
angle, or fight, or die. 

After exploring miles of pictures, the two 
on secular themes that hang in my mem- 
ory, higher than all, deeper than all, 
brighter than all, are Turner's ''Parting of 
Hero and Leander;" and Turner's "Palace 
and Bridge of Caligula." And there they 
will hang forever. 

Yet his rivals and enemies hounded him 
to death. Unable longer to endure the face 
of a public which had so grievously mal- 
treated him, with a broken heart he went 
out from his elegant parlors on Queen 
Anne Street, to die in a mean house in 
Chelsea. After he was lifeless, the world 
gathered up his body, played a grand 
march over it, and gave It honored sepul- 
ture. Why did they not do justice to him 
while living? What are monuments worth 
to a dead man? Why give stones when 
he asked for bread? Why crack and 
crush the jewel, and then be so very care- 
ful about the casket? Away with this oft- 
repeated graveyard farce! Do not twist 
into wreaths for the tomb the flowers with 
which you ought to have crowned the 
heated brow of a living painter. 

)o( 



174 Crumbs Swept Up. 

BRUTES. 

Edwin Landseer has come to a better un- 
derstanding of the brute creation than has 
any other man. He must have had a pet 
spaniel, or cat, or horse, that in hours of 
extreme confidence gave him the secret 
grips, signs, and passwords of the great 
fraternity of animals. He knows the lan- 
guage of feathers, the feeling of a sheep 
being sheared, of an ox goaded, and the 
humilration of a dog when kicked off the 
piazza. In presence of Landseer's hunted 
stag, you join sides with the stag, and wish 
him escape from the hounds; and when 
pursuers and pursued go tumbling over the 
rocks into the mad torrent beneath, the 
reindeer with lolling and bloody tongue, 
and eye that reels into its last darkness, 
you cry "Alas!" for the stag, but ''Good!" 
for the hounds; and wonder that the 
painter did not take the dogs ofif the scent 
before the c*atastrophe. 

Was ever a bay mare more beautifully 
shod than, in Kensington Museum, Land- 
seer shoes her? The blacksmith-shop is 
just such a one as we rode to, with rope- 
halter on the horse's head, and when, bare- 
foot, we dismounted, the smith of the 
leathern apron, and rusted spectacles, and 
hands seemingly for five years an exile 
from wash-basins, bade us look out how we 



Brutes, 175 

trod on the hot iron. Does anything 
sound more clearly through the years than 
the wheeze of the old bellows, and the 
clang of the sledge-hammer, and the 
whistle of the horse-tail brush with which 
we kept off the flies; while, with the up- 
lifted and uneasy foot of the horse between 
the workm.an's legs, he clenched the nail, 
•clipped off the raggedness of the hoof, and 
filed smooth the surface, the horse flinch- 
ing again and again, as the nail came too 
near the quick? And then the lightning of 
sparks as the hammer fell on the red-hot 
iron, and the chuck and siss and smoke 
of the bar as it plunged into the water- 
bucket! Oh! there was a rugged poetry in 
a blacksmith-shop, and even now the sound 
of the old wagon-tire at the door rouses me 
up like a war-whoop, and in the breath of 
the furnace I glow with memories. Only 
a few months ago, I walked into a city 
blacksmith-shop, and asked if at any time I 
could get a horse shod there. You see, 
there might be a time when I would buy a 
horse, and he might need such services ; but 
our chief reason for going in was that we 
wanted to see if such a place looked as it 
did of yore. 

As Landseer lifts the back foot of the 
bay mare, the wrinkles of her haunches are 
warm with life, and her head turns round 
most naturally to oversee the job, as much 



176 Crumbs Swept Up. 

as to say, "Be careful how you drive that 
nail," or, "Your holding my hoof is very 
uncertain." On behalf of all the horses 
which go limping with ill-set shoe and nails 
in the hock, I thank this blacksmith. I 
know he is doing his work well, or, from 
the spirit of the mare, he would before this 
have been hurled into the middle of the 
turnpike — hammer, apron, and nail-box. 

No one so well as Landseer can call up a 
bloodhound, and make him lie down in the 
right place — a decided case of armed peace. 
You treat him well, not so much because of 
your respect for dogs, as out of considera- 
tion for your own interest. Walk softly 
about him and see the great reefs of hide — 
more skin than a dog needs, as though he 
had been planned on a larger scale, but 
after he had begun to be filled in, the orig- 
inal plan had been altered. See the sur- 
plusage of snarl in that terrier, and of hair 
on that poodle, and how damp he is on the 
end of his nose! 

And here you find one of Landseer's 
cows, full-uddered, glad to be milked. You 
will see the pail foam over soon if that care- 
less milkmaid does not upset it. Bless met 
I have seen that cow a hundred times be- 
fore. It is the very one I used, in boyhood, 
to drive up as the evening breeze was rust- 
ling the corn-silk, and making the tall tas- 
sels wave like the plumes of an Indian war- 



Brutes. 177 

rior squatting in the woods: a cow of 
kindly look, the breath of clover sweeping- 
from her nostrils, meeting me at the bars 
with head through the rails, and low moan 
of petition for the barn-yard. 

Even the donkey is introduced with a 
loving touch in Landseer's pictures. Now, 
a man who can favorably regard mule or ass 
is a marvel of sympathy. I am in fresh 
memory of a mule in the Alps. He might 
as well have lived on Newark Flats, for all 
the good fine scenery did him. With what 
an awkward tread he carried me up to the 
Mer de Glace, jerking backward and for- 
ward, so that I was going both ways at 
once, but, nevertheless, slowly advancing^ 
because the jerk forward was somewhat in 
excess of the jerk backward. The flies 
were ravenous, and to catch one of them 
he would stop mid-cliff, throw one foot up 
till he struck my foot in the stirrup, as 
though he proposed to get on himself, and 
then would put his head back, till nothing 
save a strong grip of the saddle kept me 
from seeing the Alps inverted. But have 
the fly he would, reckless of shout and whip^ 
and thump of heel in the side. Mules are 
stubborn, crafty — unlike men, in the fact 
that they look chiefly after their own in- 
terests (?); but these brutes are not very 
intelligent, considering, from their ears, 
how large an opportunity they have of 



178 Crumbs Swept Up. 

hearing. They have most imperfect intona- 
tion, -and but Httle control over their voice. 
When a donkey begins to bray, it seems 
he does not know when he will be able to 
,^top, or whether the voice will rise or fall in 
its cadences. But donkeys cannot help 
this, and for their sins they are to be pitied. 
Therefore, Edwin Landseer calls them into 
his pictures. What a kind man he must be! 
Blessed the dog that fawns at his feet, the 
horse that draws his carriage, the cat that 
mews on his window-sill, the deer that 
ranges through his park! Thrice blessed 
their m-aster! 

Animals in Europe are more sympa- 
thized wkh than in America. I see no 
over-driven horses, no unsheltered cattle, 
no cracking away at birds with old blunder- 
busses, just for the sake of seeing the fea- 
thers flutter. When, on the twelfth of Aug- 
ust, all England and Scotland go a-grouse- 
hunting, and Perth and Aberdeen and In- 
verness and Chatsworth are shaken with a 
continiKDUS bang of sportsmen, there is no 
cruelty. It is an honest lift of the gun, a 
fair look across -the barrel, a twitch of the 
forefinger of the right hand, a fiash, and 
game for dinner at Peacock Inn or Ele- 
phant and Castle. 

You see more animals in bronze and 
stone in Europe than in the United States. 
If young Americans, wanting quills to 



Brutes. 179 

write with, have plucked the American 
eagle, till, featherless, and with an empty 
craw, it sits on the top of the Rocky Moun- 
tains wishing it were dead, the English 
have paid quite as much attention to the 
lion. You see it done up in every shape, 
sitting or standing, everywhere. The foun- 
tains are guarded with lions; the entrances 
of houses flanked with lions; the signs of 
stores adorned with lions, — fighting lions, 
sleeping lions, crying lions, laughing lions, 
couchant lions. English artists excel with 
this animal. When French and German 
sculptors attempt one, it is merely a lion in 
the abstract, too weak to rend a kid and 
never having seen a jungle. But lying on 
the base of Nelson's monument in Trafal- 
gar Square are four lions that look as 
though they had a moment before laid 
down there and curled their long tails 
peacefully around, and had just stopped 
there a few minutes to see what was going 
on at Charing Cross and the Cockspur. 

On the top of Northumberland House is 
a lion v/ith mouth open and tail extended 
in rigid rage, so that it is uncertain which 
way to run, as you know not with which 
end he will assault you. There are more lions 
in London than in Numidia. Beef and 
mutton are liked well by the Englishman, 
but for regular diet, give him lion. 

European horses look better satisfied 



i8o Crumbs Swept Up. 

than American. They either have more 
fodder or less drive. The best-kept horses 
I ever found are in Antwerp. I saw but 
one lean nag in that city, and that one I 
think was an emigrant just arrived. When 
good American horses die, they go to Ant- 
werp. 

Europeans caress the dog. He may He 
on the mat or sit near the table. Among 
the Alps we had a wretched dinner — not 
lacking in quantity or variety, but in qual- 
ity. There was enough of it, such as it was. 
The eggs had seen their best days, and the 
mutton must have been good for two or 
three weeks after they killed it. A Saint 
Bernard dog sat near by, petitioning for a 
morsel. The landlord was out — we saw by 
the bill of fare we should have high rates to 
pay, — we could do nothing ourselves to- 
ward clearing the plates, and so we con- 
cluded to feast our friend of Saint Bernard. 
We threw him half an omelet, assuring him 
first that the amount we gave him would de- 
pend on the agility with which he caught 
it. Either not understanding French, or 
being surprised at the generosity of the 
provision, he let half the omelet fall to the 
floor, but he lost no time in correcting the 
failure. We threw him a mutton-chop. 
With a snap of the eye and a snif¥, and a 
long sweep of the tongue over the jaw he 
said by his looks as plainly as if he had 



Brides. i8i 

spoken with his Hps: "I Hke that better. 
I never get mutton-chops. I think they 
will agree with me." When the landlord 
came in, he suspected that some unusual 
proceeding had taken place between his 
guests and the dog, and so he kicked him 
out of the room. The remaining sin within 
us suggested our treating the landlord as 
he had treated the mastiff, but our profes- 
sion, and more especially the size of the 
man, restrained us. I left -the inn more 
sorry to leave Bernard than his keeper. 

Among the worthiest dogs of the world, 
or rather of the church, are the Saint 
Bernards. They have no frisk of merri- 
ment. The shadow of the great ledges is 
in their eyes, and the memory of travelers 
lost in Alpine snows is in their hearts. 
When you meet them, cheer them up with 
chops and omelets. 

European cities are not ashamed to take 
some bird or beast under their patronage. 
A^enice looks especially after her pigeons. 
Strasburg pets the storks whose nests are 
on almost all the chimneys. Berne care- 
fully guards her bears. Egypt apotheosizes 
cats. Oh that the cruelty of man to bird 
and beast might come to an end! They 
have more right to the world than man, for 
they preceded him in the creation, the birds 
having been made on Friday and the cat- 
tle on Saturday morning, and man coming 



1 82 Crumbs Swept Up. 

in at the fag--end of the week. No wonder 
th^t these aborigines of the -world some- 
times resist, and that the bees stingy, and 
the bears growl, and the cats get their 
backs up, and dogs bark, and eagles defend 
their eyries with iron beak, the crags echo- 
ing with the clangor of this flying squadron 
of the sky. 



■)o(- 



A NATION STUNNED. 

The long finger of the oceanic telegraph 
may write on the multiform sheet of the 
"Associated Press" the news of victory or 
defeat; but no one not stopping in Paris 
to-day can realize the condition of things. 
The city is dazed and confounded. Paris 
never before came so near keeping Sunday 
as on the first day of this week. Not many 
concerts, but little conviviality, and no 
carousal — it did not seem like Sabbath at 
all. August 15, the Emperor's fete day, 
the Fourth of July of France, fell dead in 
front of the Tuileries. Instead of Paris on 
fire with illumination, the streets were dull, 
and the palace, as we passed along at night, 
had but one lighted window, save the light 
of the employes in .the basement. 

Whatever may be one's opinion in re- 



A Nation Stunned. 185 

gard to the French Government, he must 
sympathize with this afflicted people. Be- 
fore this paragraph reaches the United 
States, the penduhmi of feeUng may have 
swung from the extreme of sorrow to the 
extreme of joy; but not once in a hundred 
years does Paris sit in ashes. She knows 
how to shout in a carousal, and to howl in 
a massacre; but it is the strangest thing of 
the century to see Paris in a "fit of the 
blues." 

Yesterday we drove out on the Bois de 
Boulogne, which might be called "the Cen- 
tral Park" of Europe; and in aU the ride we 
passed not a single vehicle. At a concert 
on Saturday night we heard the Marseil- 
laise Hymn so gloriously sung by soldiers,, 
in full uniform, with flags and guns, that 
we involuntarily threw up our hats, not 
knowing exactly what we were excited 
about; but the general applause that re- 
sponded to the national air was not as lively 
as you might hear in any place of amuse- 
ment in the United States on any night of 
the year. I know not but that this quiet 
may be the lull before the tempest of fire 
that shall sweep back the Prussians from 
the French frontier; but Paris sits dumb- 
struck to-day. 

The prizes that were to have been given 
last week in the schools have been with- 
held. There is no sound of laughter or 



184 Crumbs Swept Up. 

mirth. Even intoxication has a subdued 
voice, and men stagger around having a 
quiet drunk. Many of the fountains ac- 
customed to dance in the Hght are still, or 
only weep a few doleful drops into the 
stone basin. With thirty-seven newspapers 
in Paris, there is no news. A placard of a 
few lines on the walls of the city, about 
every other day, announces something very 
iminiportant. We get occasionally a Lon- 
don Times, but are left chiefly to our imag- 
ination; and when our friends ask us what 
the news is, we tell them that the Dutch 
have fallen back on Amsterdam, and the 
Germans advanced to Darmstadt. 

Tourists are in a panic. Americans rush 
to the steamship offtces, wanting to go on 
the Cunard, Inman, or National Line, or 
even a frrst-class schooner; and almost 
ready, were it not for the anxiety of their 
friends, to go afoot. Some of our friends 
who have never seen Paris, dart down from 
Switzerland to this city, and take the first 
train for Calais, expecting to be massacred 
before they get across the city. We have 
concluded to risk it a little longer. As we 
have come on a tour of sight-seeing, we 
shall stay till we see all; trusting first in 
the good Providence which has always seen 
lis through, and secondly upon our Amer- 
ican passport. 

This, of all summers, has been the best 



A Natioji Stunned. 185 

for traveling in Europe to those who hap- 
pened to take Germany first. The climate 
has been so delicious that we have not suf- 
fered from one hot blast. The hotels, 
heretofore surfeited with patronage and un- 
obliging, now give the best rooms and most 
obsequious attendance. You have your 
pick of a dozen carriages, each one under- 
bidding the other. You have a whole rail- 
carriage for your own party. Though 
there be but one American newspaper in 
the reading-room, no one else wants it. 
You look at the pictures without the im- 
pertinence of any one passing in front of 
you. There is plenty of room in the dili- 
gence for Chamouni. You buy things at 
cheap rates, because there is no rivalry 
among purchasers. You hear bands of 
martial music enlivening the air by day 
and night. 

And, besides that, one feels it grand to 
be here at a point of time which must be as 
important in history as 1572, when the bel- 
fry of St. Germain L'Auxerrois tolled for 
the horrors of St. Bartholomew's day. And 
who would blame me if my pen should this 
moment tremble a little along the line as I 
write, within hearing distance of the place 
where the mob hurled the four hundred 
massacred Swiss guards from the king's 
balcony, and only a few steps from the 
place where the chop of the guillotine turn- 



1 86 Crumbs Swept Up, 

bled the head of Marie Antoinette into 
the dead-box. 

May the torch of Parisian splendor never 
through the pool of human blood go hiss- 
ing out into darkness ! The torn and shot- 
ted battle-flags of France hang in the 
chapel of Hotel des Invalides, where the 
old soldiers worship. Oh ! that the banners 
of the Prince of Peace might be set up in 
the Tuileries. The Arc de Triomphe has 
in letters of stone all the battlefields of the 
first Napoleon. Oh! that soon, under the 
arch of heavenly triumph, Immanuel might 
come up from the conquest of all the na- 
tions. In the illumination of that victory 
there will be no light of burning home- 
steads; in the wine of that feast there will 
be no tears. 

In a week we start for home. The most 
welcome sight to us in three months will 
be the faces of our friends. I am tired of 
resting. Speed on the days between this 
and the best rest that a man ever gets on 
earth — the joy of preaching the gospel 
which offers to make all men happy and 
free! In body, mind, and soul I thrill 
with the anticipation. 

)o( 



Clerical Farming. 187 

CLERICAL FARMING. 

''Does it pay?" we are every day asked 
by citizens who at this season begin to won- 
der what they will do with themselves next 
summer. "How did the cabbages turn 
out?" interrogates an incredulous parish- 
ioner with a twinkle in his eye, and a 
laugh twitching at the corner of his mouth. 
Is there not a fatal repulsion between pen 
and hoe? Can one who is shepherd of a 
city fiock keep Southdowns from getting 
the hoof-rot? How much out of pocket at 
the end of the year? 

We answer, that clerical farming does 
pay. Notwithstanding a weasel invaded 
the poultry-yard, and here and there a 
chicken died of the "gapes," and one of the 
frosts saved us a great deal of trouble pick- 
ing peaches, and one day, in the process of 
making butter, "soda ash" was taken for 
salt, and the caterpillars of our neighbor- 
hood were very fond of celery, and the 
drinking of milk without any chalk at first 
made us all sick — the shock too sudden for 
the constitution — still we feel that we made 
our fortune last summer. With a long- 
handled hoe we turned up more than our 
neighbors dreamt of. Though a few hun- 
dred dollars out of pocket (a fact we never 
acknowledged to agricultural infidels) we 
were physically born again. We have 



1 88 Crumbs Swept Up. 

walked stronger ever since, for our walk 
last summer in the furrow. Our hay-pitch- 
ing was an anodyne that has given us 
sound sleep all winter. On our new grind- 
stone we sharpened our appetite, and have 
since been able to cut through anything 
set before us. We went out in the spring 
feeling that the world was going to ruin; 
we came back in the autumn persuaded 
that we were on the eve of the millennium. 
Like all other beginners, our first at- 
tempt at buying a horse resulted in our 
getting bitten — not by the horse. From 
Job's vivid description we went forth to 
look for a horse whose "neck was clothed 
with thunder." We found him. We liked 
the thunder very well, but not so well the 
lightning that flew out of his feet the first 
time he kicked the dash-board to pieces. 
We give as our experience that thunder is 
most too lively to plough with. We found 
him dishonest at both ends. Not only 
w^ere his heels untrustworthy, but his teeth, 
and the only reason we escaped being bit- 
ten by the horse, as well as the jockey who 
sold him, was that we are gifted with pow- 
ers of locomotion sufficient for any emer- 
gency, especially if there be sufficient pro- 
pulsion advancing from the rear. Job shall 
never choose another horse for us. We 
telegraphed to the jockey, ''Come and take 
your old nag, or I will sue you!" He did 



Clerical Farming. 189 

not budg-e, for he was used to being- sued. 
Having changed our mind, we telegraphed 
offering to pay him for the honor of swind- 
Hng us, and the telegram was successful. 
We gave him a withering look as he rode 
away, but he did not observe it. 

Our first cow was more successful. She 
has furnished the cream of a good many 
jokes to our witty visitors, and stands, I 
warrant, this cold day, chewing her cud like 
a philosopher — the calmness of the blue sky 
in her eyes, and the breath of last summer's 
pasture-field sweeping from her nostrils. 
Gentle thing! When the city boys came 
out, and played "Catch," running under 
her, or afterward standing on both sides, 
four boys milking at once, she dissented 
not. May she never want for stalks! 

W^e were largely successful with one of 
our two pigs. Our taste may not be thor- 
oughly cultured, but we think a pig of six 
weeks is positively handsome. It has such 
an innocent look out of its eyes, and a voice 
so capable of nice shades of inflection, 
whether expressive of alarm or want. Such 
a cunning wink of the nose, such artistic 
twist of tail! But one of the twain fell to 
acting queer one day. It went about, as if, 
like its ancestors of Gadara, unhappily ac- 
tuated, till after a while it up and died. We 
had a farrier to doctor it, and poor thing! 
it was bled, and mauled, till we know not 



iQO Crujnbs Swept Up. 

whether to ascribe its demise to the disease 
or the malpractice of the medical adviser. 
But its companion flourished. We had 
clergymen, lawyers, and artists admire and 
praise it. We found recreation in looking 
at its advancement, and though the proverb 
says that you ''cannot make a whistle out 
of a pig's tail," figuratively speaking, I have 
made a dozen out of that mobile and un- 
promising material. 

Our geese flourished. Much-maligned 
birds! They are wise instead of foolish^ 
save in the one item of not knowing how to 
lower their necks when you want them to 
go under the fence. (Who of us has not 
one weak point of character?) They are af- 
fectionate, and die if shut up alone, and 
with wild outcry sympathize with any un- 
fortunate comrade whose feathers have 
been plucked. From their wings they fur- 
nished the instrument for writing Walter 
Scott's "Rob Roy," and Thomas Carlyle's 
''Sartor Resartus." Worth more than an 
eagle any day, have better morals, do pluck 
more nutriment out of the mud than eagles 
do out of the sun. Save for Fourth of July 
orations eagles are of but little worth, filthy, 
cruel, ugly at the beak, fierce at the eye, 
loathsome at the claw; but give me a flock 
of geese, white-breasted, yellow-billed, 
coming up at night-fall with military tramp, 
in single file led on, till nearing the barn- 



Clerical Fa nning. 1 9 r 

yard they take wing, and with deafening- 
clang the flying artillery wheel to their 
bivouacs for the night. 

Yes, clerical farming docs pay. Out on 
the place we won the medal every day for 
pictures hung with fire-loops in the sky- 
gallery; and for machinery by which the 
sun drew water, and the trees pumped up 
the juices, and the shower and sunshine 
wove carpets better than Axminster for 
Brindle and Durham to walk on. 

If a city clergyman has no higher idea 
than a crop of turnips or corn, he had bet- 
ter not take a farm. It will be cheaper to 
let somebody else's hen lay the eggs, and 
to buy your tomatoes by the peck. But He 
who would like to look out of his window 
and see ''rain on the new-mown grass," 
and at five o'clock would love to walk out 
and see ''the day-spring from on high," or 
in the garden hear Christ preaching from 
the text, "Consider the lilies," or watch 
God feeding the ravens, or see him cloth- 
ing "the grass of the field," or in the gush 
of full moonlight learn the sweetness of the 
promise, "At evening tide it shall be light," 
— let such a minister get a place in the 
coimtry, and spend the weeks that he has 
usually passed among the bright shawls of 
starched watering-places, with his coat oflf, 
in check shirt, and coarse boots, listening 
while "mountains and all hills, fruitful trees 



192 Crumbs Swept Up. 

and all cedars, beasts and all cattle, creep- 
ing things, and flying fowl" at matins and 
vesper-s praise the Lord; geranium and 
branch of apple-blossom swinging their 



censers. 



-)o(- 



MAKING THINGS GO. 

Sometimes a man who seems to succeed 
is at every step a failure. There is more 
lawful fraud committed than unlawful. 
Penitentiaries and the Court of ''Oyer and 
Terminer" are for those clumsy rogues who 
do not know how to steal. The purloining 
of one cabbage ends in the ''Tombs," but 
the absconding with one hundred thousand 
dollars wins a castle on the Rhine. So you 
see that men get into jail not because they 
steal, but because they do not steal enough. 
There are estates gathering that have not 
within them one honest dollar. 

But the general rule is that moral suc- 
cess is worldly success. It is easier to 
make a permanent fortune in honorable 
ways than by dishonorable conduct. The 
devil is a poor financier. When the gold 
and the silver were laid down in the earth, 
they were sworn to serve the cause of 
righteousness, and they never go into the 
coffers of the dishonest without commit- 



Making Things Go. 193 

ting perjury. Lawful enterprise in the long 
run will declare larger dividends than dis- 
honest scheming. The oil c'ompany of 
which Hon. Bogus Greaseback is Presi- 
dent, and Hocus Pocus, Esq., is Secretary, 
at first declares twenty per cent, then ten 
per cent, afterw^ard three per cent, and, last 
of all, nothing, leaving the widows and or- 
phans to play the beautiful game of 
*'Money! money! who has the money?" 

But fraudulent estates do not average a 
continuance of more than five years. Occa- 
sionally, an old man, having gathered large 
property by ignoble means, may die in its 
possession, bequeathing it to his heirs; but 
when the boys get it, what with their wine, 
and what with their fast horses — ha! how 
thev will make it fly! 

There is an honest work for every one to 
do. When a child is born, his work is al- 
ready prepared for him. There is some- 
thing in his nature which says, ''Yonder 
is the field, the shop, the store! Come, my 
little man! Be busy!" No doubt Samson, 
when he was a boy, sometimes gave pre- 
monition of what he was going to be, amus- 
ing himself by carrying ofif gates, and in 
chasing his playmates with the jawbone of 
a bleached carcass, and, long before he 
fired of¥ the three hundred fox-tails among 
the corn-shocks of the Philistines, had tried 
the same extreme measures on the cats of 



194 Crumbs Swept Up. 

his father's house. Cowley evinced the 
poet when in very early life he was wrought 
into enchantment by the reading of Spen- 
ser's ''Fairy Queen." Joshua Reynolds, in 
boyhood, prophesied the painter by hang- 
ing sketches around his father's house, al- 
though the disgusted father wrote under 
one of them, "Done by Joshua out of pure 
idleness!" Our own Van Derlyn began 
his career in boyhood by chalk sketches on 
the side of a blacksmith-shop. 

Nature invariably hints for what she has 
made a child. Here is a boy cunning at a 
bargain. At school he is extravagantly 
fond of trading. He will not come home 
twice with the same knife, or hoop, or kite. 
To-morrow morning he will leave the 
house with an ignominious yarn-ball — a 
great trial to a boy on the play-ground — 
but at night will come back with one of 
india-rubber, which under the stroke of 
the bat, will soar almost out of sight, and 
then come down with long-continued 
bounce! bounce! Some morning, calculat- 
ing on the lowness of the apple-market, he 
will take a satchel full to school. Immed- 
iately there is a rush in the market. He 
monopolizes the business. He sells at just 
the right time. The vigilant school-mas- 
ter, finding him bartering in what are not 
considered lawful business hours, brings 
him into port, and he is compelled by this 



Making Things Go. 195 

government officer to discharge his cargo 
in the presence of his fellows, who gape 
upon him like a company of stevedores. 
Can you doubt for a moment for what oc- 
cupation he was designed? He must be a 
merchant. 

Here is a boy of different liking. Across 
the brook he has thrown a dam, and whirl- 
ing around is a water-wheel. He can con- 
struct anything he chooses — sleds for the 
winter, wagons for the summer, and boats 
for the river. His knife is most of the time 
out on a whittling excursion. Down on 
your best carpets he plants his muddy tools. 
You are so pestered on the Saturdays when 
there is no school, it requires all of Sunday, 
and sharp sermons at that, to get your pa- 
tience unwrinkled. Pigeon-coops on the 
barn and bird houses in the trees, attest his 
ingenuity. Give him a trade. He must be 
a mechanic. 

Here is another boy. You do not know 
what to do with him. He is always start- 
ing an argument. He meets your reproof 
with a syllogism. He is always at the most 
inconvenient time asking, "Why?" He is 
on the opposite side of what you believe, but 
anything for an argument. If you prom- 
ised him a flogging, he would file a caveat 
to stop proceedings, and, dissatisfi.ed with 
your decisions, he gets out a certiorari, 
carrying matters up to the Supreme Court 



196 Crumbs Swept Up. 

of his own reason. With all this he has a 
glib tongue, and when fairly started, it rat- 
tles like hail on a tin roof. His destiny is 
plain: he must be a lawyer. 

But if you should happen to have under 
your charge, as guardian or parent, a child 
not sharp enough to strike a bargain, not 
ingenious enough to make a sled, not lo- 
quacious enough to start an argument, not 
inquisitive as to the origin of things, al- 
ways behind in the school, and slow on the 
play-ground — there is then only this alter- 
native: If he be fat and chubby, of uncon- 
querable appetite and enormous digestion, 
and lazy withal, then send him to the city, 
pull the wires, and make him an alderman; 
but if he be long and lean, sallow-cheeked 
with nerves ever on the twitch, and a diges- 
tion that will not go, I know not what you 
will do with him unless you make him a 
minister. Alas! for the absurdity rampant 
among families, that when, because of phy- 
sical incompetency, a man is fit for nothing 
else, he is fit to be a "legate of the skies." 
Religion will never make up for lack of 
liver and backbone. 



.)o(. 



Saturday Night, 197 

SATURDAY NIGHT. 

We read Reynolds in the art-gallery; we 
read Longfellow by the sea; we read Ik 
Marvel under the trees; we read the weekly 
paper on Saturday night. When the week 
is past, and we gather at the evening stand, 
with the world put off, and our slippers put 
on, give us a good family newspaper. It is 
the hardest thing in the world to make. 

Family newspapers only a few years ago 
were dolorous things. The columns were 
full of accounts of boys and girls who al- 
ways sat up straight, and kept their faces 
clean, and wiped their, feet on the door- 
mat. The theology was cast-iron, and the 
story wooden, with a long moral, not grow- 
ing out, but tagged on; so that the children; 
took the moral with a wry face for the sake, 
of getting the story, just as they swallowed 
the calomel with the promise, ''There now.^ 
you shall have a sugarplum!" 

The world has learned that a thing is not 
necessarily good because it is dry. There 
is no religion in chips. We never could 
see any sanctity in husks. The donkey 
hath no hilarity in his voice, and no non- 
sense in the twitch of his ear. He never 
was known to dance. Yet he never grets 
higher than his feed-box, while the robin 
and the lark, from the tip of bill to tip of 
claw, all Hfe and joy and merriment, with 



198 Crumbs Swept Up. 

their wings brush the door-latch of heaven. 
I will like it the more if the editor dips his 
pen in the dew to tell me of the morning, 
and in roseate to describe the sunset, and 
into the purple vats to suggest the vine- 
yards; and if then he fasten his sheets to- 
gether with a blue band, torn from the 
forehead of heaven. There is yet to be 
such a thing as holiness on the bells of the 
horses; and when Religion shall have com- 
pleted the conquest of the earth, I expect 
to see all the diamonds of the universe 
flashing in the rim of her tiara. 

The family newspaper must have a touch 
of romance. Alas, for this day of naked 
facts! We deplore this unromancing of 
everything. We have a rail-track to the 
top of Mount Washington. The trees un- 
der which Henry Clay walked are cut up 
into walking-sticks. Men have turned 
Passaic Falls into a mill-race. Be not sur- 
prised if Independence Hall gets to be an 
oyster-cellar. Dear old Santa Claus has 
been pushed ofif the top of the chimney and 
had his neck broken. Facts ! Facts ! Facts ! 
Give us in our family newspaper a little 
romance. It will do no harm to hear of 
moonlight ramble, and sail on the lake with 
only two in the boat; and while you despise 
elopements as unwise and dangerous, do 
not fear to tell us of the father who wanted 
his daughter to marry some rich old Dis- 



Saturday Night, 199 

agreeable, while the young man was ready 
with hard hands and loving heart to earn 
for her a home in the cottage. I am glad 
that the ladder did not break, and that 
Timothy Hardfist won the prize. 

Give us more spice in our family news- 
paper. We meet in our daily walks so 
much that is depressing, give us in our 
family newspaper whole bundles of spice: 
jokes that you can understand without 
laborious explanation, conundrums, quips, 
quirks, harmless satire, caricatures of the 
world's foibles, and looking-glasses in 
which to see our failings. Yes, give place 
occasionally to the much-abused pun. 
Those only despise the pun who cannot 
make one. Take the quill, and after you have 
made the split in it, sharpen it down until 
the point is keen enough to puncture the 
toughest inconsistency. Let the sheet be 
fresh and healthy, in it a smell of cedar and 
new-cut grass. Let us hear in the rhythm 
of some of the sentences the moan of an 
untraveled wood, and the sweep of the 
wing of a partridge. Instead of the artifi- 
cial dye of stale imagery, crush against the 
printed leaf a bunch of huckleberries and 
sumac. We are tired out with all this about 
the nightingale; for pity's sake, catch for 
us a brown-thresher, and let us hear a hen 
cluck. Instead of riding Bucephalus to 
death, halter that sorrel colt. Talk not so 



200 Crumbs Swept Up. 

much to us about frankincense, to the neg- 
lect of pennyroyal and brookmint. Get 
out with your commonplace remark about 
''a solitary horseman coming over the hill." 
Instead of talking so much about the "bulls 
of Bashan," drive up Brindle and Durham. 

This is a grand old world if you would 
only let us see it as it is. The book-worm 
who sits down to write, having learned only 
of trees, and mountains, and waters, from 
his library, knows nothing about them. 
You have to put on your high-top boots, 
and wade right out up to your waist to 
pluck a water-lily, if you would see it to 
the best advantage. I had been with many 
a picnic party to see *' Buttermilk Falls," 
but not until the other day when I went 
alone, and had a stolen interview with that 
cascade, did I really see her perfect beauty, 
as, shoving aside her white veil of mist, 
and throwing back her ribbons of rainbow, 
she told me all about her tragical leap from 
the rocks. 

On Saturday night, as we open the fam- 
ily paper, let us catch the odor of pine, and 
the glance of an autumnal leaf dropping 
like the spark from a forge. Let some 
geranium-leaf overpower the smell of prin- 
ter's ink. Tell us of home. Let us know 
how wives ought to be attentive to their 
husbands, and how husbands — but never 
mind that. Come, O weekly visitant! into 



The Hatchet Buried. 201 

the front door with a blessing. Our week's 
w^ork done, and notes paid, and accounts 
squared, and the hurry over, and the Sab- 
bath near, speak you a cheerful word to the 
desponding, a chiding word to the wander- 
ing, a soothing word to the perplexed; and 
help the ten thousand of the weary and 
the foot-sore, and the hardly bestead, by 
the still camp-fires of life's great battle- 
field, to thank God that the seven days' 
march is over, and it is Saturday night. 
Before long our pens, and needles, and 
trowels, and yardsticks, and saws, and 
pickaxes will be still. With our hand in 
the hands of some loved one, we will be 
waiting for a brighter Sunday morning 
than earth saw ever. Others call that wait- 
ing: — Death. I call it Saturday Night. 



^t> 



■)o(- 



THE HATCHET BURIED. 

When the other day the New School and 
Old School churches kissed each other at 
Pittsburg, some one said, ''Now, Lord, let- 
test thou thy servant depart in peace!" We 
felt just the other way. We want to live 
now more than ever to see how matters will 
come out. It is wrong to want to die in 
such a time as this, when the armies are 
wheeling into line, and the batteries of 



202 Crumbs Swept Up. 

earth and hell and heaven are being im- 
limbered for the contest which will decide 
who shall have the supremacy of this world. 
We have spent too much time in ecclesias- 
tical pugilism. We have lost about a hun- 
dred years in gunning for Methodists, and 
drowning Baptists, and beating Presby- 
terians to death with the decrees, and pom- 
melling Episcopalians with the butt-end of 
the liturgy. As at Bothwell Bridge the 
Scotch army quarrelled among themselves, 
eighteen ministers, with eighteen different 
opinions, contending most fiercely, until Lord 
Claverhouse came down with disciplined 
troops and swept the field; so in the time 
when hosts of darkness in mail of hell were 
coming upon us, we were contending. Old 
School against New School, Free-will Bap- 
tists against close communionists, Metho- 
dist Church North against Methodist 
Church South, and we have been routed on 
a hundred fields, when, forgetting every- 
thing but the one-starred banner under 
which we fought, and the Captain who led 
us on, we might have shouted the victory 
through our Lord Jesus Christ. 

Thank God that so many of the rams of 
the Church have had their horns sawed off, 
and that the ecclesiastical chanticleers have 
lost their spurs. The books of contro- 
versialists will be on the shelves of college 
and State libraries, old and yellow and cob- 



The Hatchet Buried. 203 

webbed, until even the book-worms will 
get tired of the slumberous literature, and 
depart from old leather-backs, and some 
day the books will be cast into the fire, and 
just before the last flame goes out, the 
world will see in the consuming scrolls the 
image of two religious combatants with 
their hands in each other's hair, combing it 
the wrong way. Bigotry is an owl that can- 
not see in the daytime; on black and spec 
tral wing it flits through the midnight 
heavens, and roosts in the belfries' of 
ruined churches. 

The millennium has already begun. The 
Episcopalian lion is eating straw like a 
Presbyterian ox, and Baptist and Pedo- 
Baptist, while lovingly discussing their 
differences, are first sprinkled, and then im- 
mersed, by a baptism of the Holy Ghost. 
Peace! If you, the Methodist, want an anx- 
ious seat, long as from Mulberry street to 
the Golden Horn, have it, and may it be 
crowded with repentant sinners. And if it 
shall be found out that all our Presbyterian 
brethren have been fore-ordained to eternal 
life. Bishops Simpson and Janes will rejoice 
with us in the fore-ordination. If this 
brother will preach in gown and bands, and 
the Western pioneer shall proclaim the 
Gospel in his shirt-sleeves, may the bless- 
ing come down upon both the preachers. 
Life is too short, and the work too great, to 



204 Crumbs Swept Up. 

allow disputation about non-essentials. If 
a drowning man is to be pulled out of the 
floods, it makes but little difference 
whether the hand you reach out to him has 
on it buckskin mitten or kid glove. 

Let us all go to preaching. Send 
polished Paul up to Athens, and plain 
Bartholomew down among the fishing- 
smacks by the sea. Do not look so anx- 
iously into your pockets for your diploma 
from Yale, or your license from presbytery. 
If the Lord does not send you into the min- 
istry, no canon of the Church can shoot 
you into it. But if He has put His hand 
on your head, you are ordained, and your 
working apron shall be the robe, and the 
anvil your pulpit; and while you are smit- 
ing the iron, the hammer of God's truth will 
break the flinty heart in pieces. Peter was 
never a sophomore, nor John a freshman. 
Harlan Page never heard that a tangent to 
the parabola bisects the angle formed at 
the point of contact by a perpendicular to 
the directrix and a line drawn to the focus. 
If George Muller should attempt chemical 
experiments in a philosopher's laboratory, 
he would soon blow himself up. And hun- 
dreds of men, grandly useful, were never 
struck on commencement stage by a bou- 
quet flung from the ladies' gallery. 

Quick! Let us find our work. You 
preach a sermon — you give a tract — you 



House of Dogs, 205 

hand a flower — you sing a song — you give a 
crutch to a lame man — you teach the Sab- 
bath class their A, B, C — you knit a pair of 
socks for a foundling — you pick a splinter 
from a child's finger. Do something! Do 
it now! We zvill be dead soon! 



-)oC- 



HOUSE OF DOGS. 

There is a great difference of opinion on 
the subject of dogs. By some people they 
are admired, and fondled, and petted, and 
have collars around their necks, and em- 
broidered blankets for their backs, and 
they lie on the lady's pillow, and take their 
siestas on the lounge, and are members of 
the family, the first question in coming into 
the house after a ride being, ''Where is 
Spot?" 

Others abhor dogs. The innocent 
canines, passing the threshold, are met 
with emphatic "Get ontT They go with 
their head down all their days, once in a 
while lifting a timid eye to a passer-by; but 
then, as if to atone for the outrage, giving 
a yelp of repentance and darting down the 
road. 

One-half the dogs you see bear the marks 
of humiliation. They never saw a bone till 



2o6 Crumbs Swept Up. 

all the meat was picked off, and no sooner 
did they find the gill of a beheaded chicken, 
and had gone under the shed for a noon- 
day repast, than they were howled away. 
They have had split sticks on their tail, and 
tin pails appended, the whole bevy of boys 
shouting as the miserable cur went down 
the street, rattle-te-bang. He frisked up 
pleasantly to greet a sweet lady as she 
came in the gate, and the damsel shrieked 
as if she had been massacred, and threw 
herself into the arms of her friends as soon 
as the door opened, crying, ''That horrid 
dog!" What chance have dogs at respect- 
ability? Who wonders that they steal 
sheep? 

Now there is, back of Hoboken, a ken- 
nel large enough to accommodate fifty 
dogs. One day a citizen, passing that way, 
was reading an account of a great interna- 
tional council to be called, and forthwith 
the great dog that inhabited the big kennel 
took the suggestion, and said, 'T will make 
proclamation to all the kingdom of dogs, 
and they shall come to declare and avenge 
their wrongs." 

Soon there was much barking, and it was 
found out that the clans were gathering. 
The amphitheatre of the kennel was 
crowded with hunters' dogs, and teamsters* 
dogs, and ladies' dogs, and rowdies' dogs. 
The great bull-dog, with one huge growl. 



House of Dogs. 207 

called the meeting to order, himself taking 
the chair. 

He growled at the cruelty of men, and 
growled at the folly of women, and 
growled at the outrages of children, till his 
growl rose into a furious bark, in which 
the audience joined, rat-terriers snarling, 
greyhounds baying, spaniels yelping, so 
that the tumult was louder than a whole 
pack on the fox-chase when with full voice 
they burst away on the moors. All at- 
tempts at gaining order were ineffectual, 
till presiding bull-dog took rat-terrier by 
the neck, and shook him till the bones 
cracked, and all the poodles shrieked in 
sheer fright. 

Several watch-dogs seated themselves at 
the reporters' desk, and took notes of pro- 
ceedings. A letter of regret, post-marked 
Switzerland, was read from a Saint Ber- 
nard dog, saying that he could not come, 
being busy in saving travelers from the 
snow in the Alpine passes; but signified 
himself ready to accept any dogma that 
might be enacted by the ''House of Dogs." 
A letter was also read from a descendant of 
Throckmorton's pointer. He scorned the 
invitation to be present. He did not be- 
lieve in Democratic assemblages, he having 
descended from the most aristocratic 
pointer of all history, and could not have 
anything to do with American mongrels. 



2o8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

One of his great-grandfathers had been on 
the chase with George the Third, and an 
ancestor on his mother's side had run un- 
der the carriage of the Lord Mayor of Lon- 
don. 

At this point a fiery blood-hound sprang 
to his back feet, and offered the following 
resolutions : 

Whereas, All dogs have by n-ature cer- 
tain inalienable rights, among which are 
life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; 
therefore. 

Resolved, istly, That we express our in- 
dignation at the treatment received from 
the human race. 

Resolved, 2dly, That to extirpate the evil, 
all dogs hereafter be allowed to vote, white 
and black, male and female. 

At this point the whole convention rose 
up into a riot. The more conservative de- 
clared that in this matter of suffrage every- 
thing depends on the color of the dog, and 
that as to the females, he thought it would 
be far more respectable if they stayed at 
home and took care of the pups. 

The uproar bid fair to break up the con- 
vention, had not a frisky canine mounted 
the stage, and in very witty style addressed 
the meeting. The crowd saw that some- 
thing pleasant was coming, for he kept 
wagging his tail — indeed, he was a perfect 
wag. His speech was not printed, for the 



House of Dogs. 209 

reporter was requested not to take it down, 
as he might want, at some other conven- 
tion, to make the same speech. Suffice it 
to say, the whole convention were thrown 
into good humor, and sat with the sides of 
their mouths drawn back, and their tongues 
out in perfect glee. 

Discussion of the resolutions being in 
order, a butcher's dog took the stand. He 
complained that he had received nothing 
at the hands of man but cruelty and mean- 
ness. Surrounded as he had been always 
by porter-house steaks, and calf's liver, and 
luscious shank-pieces, and lamb-chops, he 
had been kept on gristle and lights. In 
the peroration of his speech, he said: 
**Hear it, ye dogs! Was it for this that we 
were spared in the Ark? Better that our 
ancestors had perished in the Deluge. I 
care not what course others may take, but 
as for m^, give me beefsteak, or give me 
death!" 

At this point there was a scramble and a 
rush, and a very disagreeable lap-dog 
leaped upon the stand. His hair was white 
and curly, and his eyes red and watery, 
and his nose damp, and there was a blue 
ribbon about his neck. His voice was very 
weak, and could not be heard. An old 
mastiff shouted, ''Louder!" and a New- 
foundland exclaimed, ''Louder!" And bull- 
dog, the presiding officer, seized lap-dog 



2IO Cru7nbs Swept Up. 

by the neck, and pitched him ofif the stage, 
for daring to come there with no gift at 
pubHc speaking. 

A teamsters dog came forward. He 
had been for five years running under a 
Pennsylvania wagon. He hailed from 
Berks County, and his advantages had been 
limited. He was an anti-temperance dog, 
and complained that there were not enough 
taverns, for his only time to rest was when 
his master was halting at the inn. He had 
traveled many thousand miles in his time, 
worried ninety-eight cats, and bitten a piece 
out of the legs of two hundred and sixty- 
three beggars. He cried, ''Down with the 
temperance fanatics, and up with more 
taverns!" 

An old house-dog rose and looked 
round, and said: "My children, I am sorry 
to hear so many complaints! I have had a 
good time. I own all the place where I 
live. All the children of my master have 
ridden on my back. I used to eat with the 
baby off of the same plate without any 
spoon. When the boy came back from sea. 
I was the first to greet him home. What 
a jolly time I had at the weddings watching 
the horses, and eating crumbs of cake! 
When sad days came to my master I 
cheered him up. I was the first to hear his 
step, and the last to part with him at the 
lane. I fled not when the black-tasselled 



House of Dogs. 211 

hearse came through the gate; and when 
the cry in the house told me that hearts 
were broken, I tapped at the door and went 
in, and laid down on the mat, and tried to 
divert my master from his woe. I am worth 
nothing, now, but young and old speak 
kindly when they pass, and I have nothing 
to disturb me, save when I dream in my 
sleep that a hare is passing, and I start to 
take him, and a stiffness catches me in the 
joints." 

A growl went through the kennel. The 
speech was unpopular. They said old 
house-dog was getting childish, or they 
would have howled him down. 

The next speaker was a worn-out, fight- 
ing dog. He had two slits in each ear, and 
one leg had been broken, and his two eyes 
had been partially dug out, and his tail 
abbreviated till it was nothing to speak of. 
He was covered with the wounds of bat- 
tle, and staggered to the stage, and said: 

''All the world seems to be against me. 
I am always getting into trouble. Every 
foot kicks me, every cudgel strikes me, 
every whiffet annoys me, every tooth bites 
me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old dog! 
In younger days I might have entered into 
the spirit of this convention, but the time is 
past. I shall soon join the dogs of Nim- 
rod the mighty hunter. This is probably 
the last time I shall ever address the 



212 Crumbs Swept Up. 

'House of Dogs.' My hearing is gone, and 
though at this moment the applause of 
this audience may be rising, I hear it not. I 
go down to my grave unwept, unhonored,. 
and unsung. Upon these dim eyes no 
vision of brightness shall dawn. Other 
tails may wag, but not mine. I have no 
tail! It is gone forever!" 

At this point the whole convention broke 
down into a whine and snuffle, and no one 
felt like lifting the spell till — 

A hunting-dog sprang to his feet, and 
broke in with a cheerful clangor of voice,, 
which had in it the ring of hunter's horn, 
and call of the hawk, and gabble of wild 
geese, and the whir of a grouse's wing^ 
and the crack of the fowling-piece, and the 
stroke of a thunder-clap as it drops on the 
Catskills on an August noon. He cried: 

''Why all this complaint? If you want 
good meat, why do you not hunt it down? 
If you want sport, why do you not go 
where it is? If you want to keep your tail, 
keep out of dogfights? If you would have 
your vision clear, wash your eyes in moun- 
tain dew at daybreak. When I want it, my 
master hath for me a whistle, and a patting,, 
and a caress, and a chunk of cheese cut 
clear across from his own luncheon. His 
boys are all mine. They race with me down 
the lane. They throw apples into the wave 
for me to swim in and catch. From the 



House of Dogs. 213 

door of my kennel I hear the shout of the 
beaux teasing the damsels by the lamplight. 
What music it is — the sound of the knife 
striking my meal from the dinner-plate! 
What beauty — the foam flung from a 
moose's lip, the wave dashed from an elk's 
flank, the shadow dropped from a pheas- 
ant's wing, the wrinkled nostril of the deer 
snuffing the air as the hounds c'ome down 
the wind! Oh, ye house-dogs! This world 
is what you make it, desolate or glad! I 
have free house, free fare, the earth for a 
play-ground, the sky for a frescoed wall, 
the lake for a wash-basin, the mountain 
mosses for a rug on which to wipe my feet. 
A first-rate world for dogs!" 

''Silence!" cried presiding bull-dog, *'we 
came here to curse and not to bless." "Put 
him out!" cried the mastiff. 'Tut him 
out!" cried scores of voices. And blood- 
hound plunged at hunting-dog's throat, 
and teamster rushed at the speaker with 
fiercer snarl than ever he started from un- 
der Pennsylvania wagon at small boy try- 
ing to steal the lash-whip, and fighting-dog 
tumbled over the back of poodle in blind 
rage, and Tray, Blanchard, and Sweetheart, 
and Wolf, and Carlo, and Spot joined in the 
assault, till hunting-dog flew from the ken- 
nel, followed by a terrific volley of howls, 
roars, yelps, and bellows, that brought out 
the whole neighborhood of men with Ian- 



214 Cruvibs Swept Up. 

terns and torches, to find an empty kennel, 
save here and there a patch of hair, and a 
few broken teeth, and one dislocated eye, 
and a small piece of rat-terrier's ear, and a 
shred of blue ribbon from the poodle's 
neck, and the remaining inch of fighting- 
dog's tail which had been the only frag- 
ment left from previous encounters, even 
that small consolation henceforth denied 
him, and scraps of paper containing the 
resolutions which had not been passed in 
consequence of the sudden and precipitate 
adjournment of the "House of Dogs." By 
this time it was day-break, and hunting- 
dog had cleared his pursuers, and back of 
the cliffs was breakfasting on wild pigeon. 



-)o(- 



PRAYER-MEETING KILLERS. 

There is a class of barbarians who roam 
the land, making fearful havoc. They 
swing no tomahawk. They sound no war- 
whoop. But their track is marked by de- 
vastation. I mean that class of persons 
who go from church to church, charged with 
the mission of talking religious meetings to 
death. They are a restless tribe, generally 
disaffected with their own church, for the 
reason that the church can no longer en- 
dure them; and then they go about, like 



Prayer- Meeting Killers. 215 

the roaring lion, seeking- whom they may 
devour. 

Though never having seen them before, 
I can tell them as soon as they enter a 
meeting. They have a brassy face, a sanc- 
timonious way of rolling up their eye, a 
solemn snuffle, and a pompous way of sit- 
ting down, as much as to say, ''Here goes 
into the seat an awful amount of religion!" 
They take off their overcoats, pull out the 
cufTs of their shirt-sleeves, give an impres- 
sive clearing of the throat, and wait for the 
time to seize their prey. 

The meeting is all aglow. Some old 
Christian has related a melting experience, 
or a young man has asked for prayers, or a 
captive of evil habits has recounted his 
struggles and cried from the depth of an 
agonized heart, "God be merciful to me a 
sinner!" Ortonville has just started heaven- 
ward, taking all the meeting along with it. 
The exercises have come to a climax, and 
the minister is about to pronounce the 
benediction, or invite the serious into an 
adjoining room for religious conversation^ 
when the Prayer-meeting Killer begins 
slowly to rise, his boots creaking, the seat 
in front groaning under the pressure of 
his right hand, and everything else seem- 
ing to give way. He confesses himself a 
stranger, but he loves prayer-meetings. 
He is astonished that there are not more 



2i6 Crumbs Swept Up. 

present. He does not see how Christians 
can be so inconsistent. He has heard an 
incident that he feels called upon to relate. 
He related it that noon at the Fulton Street 
Prayer-meeting. He related it that after- 
noon at an old people's meeting. He will 
relate it now in rehearsal for a meeting to- 
morrow, at which he expects to relate it. 
His voice is wooden. His eyes are dry as 
the bottom of a kettle that has been on a 
stove two hours without any water in it. 
The young people laugh, and go out one 
by one. The aged wipe the sweat from 
their foreheads. And the minister begins 
within himself to recite an extemporized 
litany, 'Trom fire, and plague, and tem- 
pest, and itinerant bores, deliver us!" 

The interloper would hardly have lived 
through the night if he could not have 
given vent to this utterance. It was impos- 
sible for him to sit still. There was some- 
where down in his clothes a spring which 
lifted him up inevitably. At the close of 
the meeting he waited to be congratulated 
on his happy remarks, and went home feel- 
ing that he had given the world a mighty 
push toward the millennium. 

If such an one is notoriously inconsis- 
tent, he will talk chiefly on personal holi- 
ness. Perhaps he failed rich, so that, un- 
encumbered, he might give all his time to 
prayer-meetings. We knew a horse-jockey 



Prayer- Meeting Killers. 217 

whose perpetual theme at such meetings 
was sanctification; and he said he was 
speeding toward heaven, but on which of 
his old nags we had not time to ask him. 

One of the chiefs of this barbarian tribe 
of Prayer-meeting Killers is the expository 
man. He is very apt to rise with a New 
Testament in his hand, or there has been 
some passage that during the day has 
pressed hepvily on his mind. It is prob- 
ably the first chapter of Romans, or some 
figurative passage from the Old Testament. 
He says, for instance: "My brethren, I call 
your attention to Hosea, 7th and 8th: 
'Ephraim is a cake not turned.' You all 
know the history of Ephraim. Ephraim 
was — ah — well! He was a man mentioned 
in the Bible. You all know who he was. 
Surely no intelligent audience like this need 
to be told who Ephraim was. Now the 
passage says that he was a cake not turned. 
There are a good many kinds of cake, my 
brethren. There is the Indian cake, and 
the flannel cake, and the buckwheat cake. 
Now Ephraim was a cake not turned. It 
is an awful thing not to be turned. My 
friends, let us all turn!" 

It sometimes happens that this religious 
pest confines himself to the meetings of his 
own church. Interesting talkers are some- 
times detained at home by sickness; but 
his health is always good. Others dare not 



2i8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

venture out in the storm; but all the ele- 
ments combined could not keep him from 
his place. He has the same prayer now 
that he has used for the last twenty years. 
There is in it an allusion to the death of a 
prominent individual. You do not under- 
stand whom he means. The fact is, he com- 
posed that prayer about the time that Gen- 
'eral Jackson died, and he has never been 
able to drop the allusion. He has a patron- 
izing way of talking to sinners, as much as 
to say, ''Ho! you poor, miserable scala- 
wags, just look at me, and see what you 
might have been!" 

Oh! I wish some enterprising showman 
would gather all these Prayer-meeting Kil- 
lers from all our churches into a religious 
menagerie, and let them all talk together. 
It would bring together more spectators 
than the Cardiff Giant. We will take five 
season tickets for the exhibition. Let these 
ofifenders be put by themselves, where, day 
in and day out, night in and night out, 
they may talk without interruption. Noth- 
ing short of an eternity of gab would satisfy 
them. What will they do in heaven, with 
nobody to exhort? We imagine them now 
rising up in the angelic assemblage, pro- 
posing to make a few remarks. If they get 
there, you will never again hear of silence 
in heaven for the space of half an hour. 

Alas! the land is strewn with the car- 



''n:' 219 

casses of prayer-meetings slain by these re- 
ligious desperadoes. They have driven 
the young people from most of our de- 
votional meetings. How to get rid of this 
affliction is the question with hundreds of 
-churches. We advise your waiting on such 
persons, and telling them that, owing to 
the depraved state of public taste, their 
efforts are not appreciated. If they still 
persist, tell them they must positively stop 
or there will be trouble. If under ah this 
they are incorrigible, collar them, and hand 
them over to the police as disturbers of re- 
ligious assemblages. As you love the 
Church of God, put an end to their ravages. 
It is high time that the nuisance was 
abated. Among the Bornesian cannibals 
and Fejee Islanders I class this tribe of 
Prayer-Meeting Kihers. 

)o( 



There have been men with power to ab- 
sorb a city. It matters not which way you 
walk in Edinburgh, you find Walter Scott, 
and see the unparted hair combed down 
straight on the great dome of his forehead. 
You are shown Walter Scott's cane, and 
Walter Scott's jack-knife, and Walter 
Scott's white hat, and Walter Scott's 
residence. After two hundred years, 



220 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Peter Paul Rubens carries Antwerp 
in his vest-pocket. The citizens adore him. 
You are taken to see Rubens' house, and 
to look at Rubens' statue, and to study 
Rubens' pictures, and at the mention of 
his name the face of the dullest Belgian is 
illuminated. The sceptre that sways Ant- 
werp to-day is a painter's pencil. 

Coming to Paris, you find a more power- 
ful memory presiding over everything. It 
is not a name that you see, but simply an 
initial inscribed on pillar, and wall, and 
arch, and chapel. You go into the Hotel 
de Ville, a place where architecture, and 
painting, and sculpture have done their 
best: statues, and fluted columns, and ceil- 
ings supported by elaborate caryatides, and 
stairs so graceful they do not climb but 
alight, and galleries not so much set fast as> 
seemingly on the wing; gold twisted, and 
carved, and chased into all the witcheries of 
beauty; and after you have walked from 
rich apartments to the richest you look 
upon a platform, on which there is one 
empty chair, in the upholstery of which is 
embroidered the initial, '*N." 

You go into the Pantheon, that holds its 
crowned head higher than all other struc- 
tures in Paris, a building bewildering with 
attractions, whether you look down to its 
exquisite mosaic floor, oi* aside to its 
carved oaken chapels, or through white 



*W." 221 

clouds of sculptured saints and apostles 
into the frescoed dome bright with the 
wings of angels flying in the midst of 
heaven; and as your eye slips from the 
dizzy height and comes falling down from 
balustrade to capital, you see encircled by 
a wreath the initial, N. 

Louis XV., who laid the corner-stone of 
this building, would not have liked that 
letter put there. Charles, who went into 
raptures with the church, would have ob- 
jected to such an inscription. Marat, with 
all his hardness, would have opposed the 
marking of a religious structure with any 
human name save his own. Yet so it is, no 
L for Louis, no C for Charles, no M for 
Marat; but on right and left, and where 
least you might expect it, the inevitable N! 
N! 

You go into one of the rooms of the 
Louvre, and you are shown Napoleon's 
saddle, and Napoleon's watch, the hands 
at seven minutes past three, the moment he 
died, and his last gray coat, the summer 
worms having eaten in it two or three 
holes, for there is nothing that moth may 
not corrupt; and knife, and cup, and chess- 
board, on which he played out his games 
of war in miniature. You look up to see 
the name of the room. Right over the 
door, any man who knows his letters may 
discover it, N! 



222 Crumbs Swept Up. 

There is no mistaking this initial for 
anything else. B might be taken for an R, 
or C for an O, or I for a J; but in the letter 
spoken of there are two perpendiculars, and 
between them a line dropped aslant from the 
top of one to the bottom of the other; and 
there you have it so that you can see it any- 
where, the unmistakable N! 

If you want your stay in Paris to be 
climacteric, leave till the last your visit to 
the tomb of Napoleon. As you go into the 
gate, an old man, who was with the great 
Frenchman at St. Helena, will sell you a 
poor picture of something that no photo- 
graphist can catch. It is a cathedral three 
hundred and twenty-three feet high, having 
cost two million dollars, dedicated to one 
dead man. Under its burnished dome is a 
concentration of wonders. Not his ashes 
resting there, but the embalmed and unde- 
cayed body of Napoleon, in military suit, in 
a red sarcophagus of Finlander quartzite, 
polished to the last perfection by skillful 
machinery, and resting on a block of green 
granite, surrounded by twelve funeral 
lamps of bronze, and twelve marble statues 
of great size, one with a wreath, as if to 
crown; another with a pen, as if to make 
record for the ages; another with a key, as 
if to open the celestial gate for a departed 
spirit; another with trumpet, to clear the 
way for the coming of a king! The pave- 



'W." 223 

merit enameled into a crown of laurels, 
from which radiates on all sides a living 
star. There are gilded gates, and speaking 
cenotaphs and radiant canopy, and elab- 
orate basso-relievos, and embossed pillars, 
and two Persian statues, holding on cush- 
ions a sceptre and a world, and ceilings 
a-blossom with finest frescoes by French and 
Italian masters, their light dripping down 
the marble in blue, and saffron, and em- 
erald, and gold. 

Oh, it is a dream of beauty! If the dead 
giant could wake up and look around, he 
might think he lay in the Moscow palace 
that he coveted, and the glistening white- 
ness around were the morning shining on 
Russian snows, or that universal empire 
had come to him; and to make his palace 
Egypt had sent its porphyry, and Switzer- 
land its marble, and Greece its sculpture^ 
and Rome its pictures, and France its 
bronze; and that the reverential spectators 
in all kinds of national costume, leaning 
over the balustrade to look, were the ador- 
ing subjects of a universal reign. 

At last we thought we had found a build- 
ing that had escaped the all-conquering 
initial. From dome to base all is so signifi- 
cant of this one great man that no inscrip- 
tion will be necessary; but turning to the 
window the old spectacle trembled upon 
my sight, in gilt, all by itself, N ! 



224 Crumbs Swept Up. 

And Paris is thus signed through and 
through; and when the fifteenth of August 
comes, it is written out in fire on boulevard 
and arch, on Champs Elysees and Bois de 
Boulogne, in front of restaurant and pal- 
ace, under the silk veil of lighted fountain, 
and on the night in sky-rockets, N, N, N. 

All this may be wxll, but the thought 
comes to us that great men are expensive 
luxuries. We are told that Napoleon was 
the benefactor of the world. If you admit 
it, then, I ask, were his achievements worth 
the two great highways of bone-dust reach- 
ing across Europe, showing which way he 
went out, and which way he came in? 
Were they worth a continent of destroyed 
families, and the myriads of souls flung 
away into smoke of battle? Were his bones 
worth the hundreds of men who, coming 
out to do him honor, froze to death on the 
day his remains were brought back to 
Paris? Were his achievements worth the 
two million and a half dollars that he spent 
on his triumphal arches, and the two mil- 
lions that built his tomb? Answer the 
question as you may, great men are expen- 
sive luxuries. 



■)o(- 



Pictures Felt. 225 

PICTURES FELT. 

One of the aggravations of a traveler's 
life is the being compelled to give but four 
days to a gallery that demands as many 
years. As we hasten through, we feel the 
fingers of worn artists pulling us back, as 
much as to say, "Is this the way you look 
at what it took years of privation and toil 
to do?" Rembrandt says, ''You did not 
see that wrinkle in the old man's face. It 
took me weary hours to sink that!" Mul- 
ler says, *'You did not notice the twist of 
straw in that upturned chair!" Delacroix 
wonders that we pass his river Styx with- 
out a tear over the distressed boatmen. 
Guerin upbraids us for slighting that 
drapery which he was a month in hanging. 
Yet we break away and push on, in a few 
hours of time passing through a seeming 
eternity of painstaking. 

But, as after days of walking through 
strange cities, there are only five or six 
faces among the multitudes that you re- 
member, so we recall only a few of the 
thousands of pictures along which we have 
passed. 

THOMAS WEBSTER. 

To this painter there was given a revela- 
tion of boys. Between six and fourteen 
years of age the masculine nature is a mix- 

15 



226 Crumbs Swept Up. 

ture of mischief, and sensitiveness, and 
spunk, and fun, and trouble, and pugnacity, 
that the chemistry of the world fails to an- 
alyze. A little girl is definable. She laughs 
when she is pleased, cries when she feels 
badly, pouts when she is cross, and eats 
when she is hungry. Not so with a boy. 
He would rather go a-nutting than to eat, 
forgets at the fish-pond he has not had his 
dinner, often laughs w^hen he feels badly, 
and looks submissive to an imposition prac- 
ticed upon him till he gets the perpetrator 
alone in the middle of the road, and tum- 
bles him into the dirt till eyes and mouth 
and nose are so full the fellow imagines 
that, before his time, he has returned to 
dust. A boy, under a calm exterior, may 
have twenty emotions struggling for as- 
cendency. 

After a boy has been tamed by hard 
discipline, and wears a stock, and has 
learned to walk down street without any 
temptation to "skip-skop," and sees only 
nonsense in leap-frog, and enjoys Calvin's 
Institutes above Robinson Crusoe, and 
feels feathers on the elbows, premonitory 
symptoms of cherub, he ceases to be a 
mystery. But Thomas Webster, in "The 
Dame School" in Kensington Museum, 
London, gives us the unperfected boy such 
as we more frequently see him, namely, 
boy in the raw. This creature is somewhat 



Pictures Felt. 227 

rough, and uncertain as to where he will 
break out, superlatively susceptible to 
tickle, is bound to lose his hat, and comes 
in red in the face from just having swal- 
lowed his slate-pencil. 

Thomas Webster, in this picture, man- 
ages boys and girls perfectly. There he 
places the spectacled old schoolmistress. I 
remember her perfectly well, although I 
have not seen her since I was eight years 
old, and yet I would have known her any- 
where by her nose. Fifty hot summers 
have dried up all the juices of her nature. 
Her countenance is full of whack and 
thump, and the gad she holds in her hand 
is as thick at one end as the other, not mod- 
erating into any mercy of thinness. It 
would never be mistaken for the rod that 
budded. Boys studying ''Rule of Three" 
look round at her to study rule of one, and, 
in multiplying the sum of school troubles, 
carry nine when they ought to carry noth- 
ing. How sharp her eyes are ! The boys sit- 
ting on the opposite side of the room feel 
her look on their back clear through the 
fustian. 

There is the cracked and peeling wall. 
There are the hats, and bonnets, and satch- 
els. There is a little girl threading a 
needle. She will have to twist tighter the 
end of the thread or she will never get it 
through that fine head. She will soon be 



228 Crumbs Swept Up. 

able to hem handkerchiefs, and to take 
stitches for her mother. May she never 
have to sew for a Hving, sorrow and an- 
guish and despair bigger than a camel go- 
ing through the eye of her needle! Here is 
a boy prompting another in the recitation, 
telling him wrong, I am certain. There 
always was some fellow to get us into trou- 
ble with geography, grammar, or arithme- 
tic lesson, telling us that the capital of Vir- 
ginia is Texas, and that baboon is a per- 
sonal pronoun, and that in every whole 
there are three halves and six quarters. 

There is a little girl crying over her les- 
son. Why cannot somebody show her? 
Napoleon getting his ammunition wagons 
over the Saint Bernard pass had nothing to 
do compared with the tug of a little child 
making her first trial at spelling ''baker '^ 
The alphabet to many has been twenty-six 
tortures. Here stands a little girl with her 
finger in her mouth. The schoolmistress 
has not seen it, or she would put an end 
even to that small consolation. School is 
no place for a bee to suck honey out of a 
flower. A boy is looking through a sheet 
of paper, which he has rolled into a scroll 
like a telescope. He is probably an astron- 
omer in the early stages. 

Here is a plodding boy, prying away at 
his books. He suiters many impositions 
from his comrades. Away! you young 



Pictures Felt. 229 

scamps with those sticks with which you 
are annoying- him! When a joke is told, 
and the children laugh, he will turn around 
with a bashful and bewildered look, imag- 
ining himself the victim of the satire, but 
next day will cackle out in the quiet of 
school-time at the sudden discovery of the 
meaning of the witticism. But he may yet 
outstrip them all. When a boy's head is so 
thick it is hard for knowledge to get in, the 
same thickness prohibits its departure. 
Give him thirty years, and he will make a 
dictionary. 

There a boy makes faces, and the whole 
school is in danger of running over with 
giggle. It is an awful thing for a child 
not to dare to laugh when the merriment 
rises, and wells up till the jacket gets tight, 
and the body is a ball of fun; and he knows 
that if out of one of the corners of his com- 
pressed lips a snicker should escape, all the 
boys would go of¥ in explosion. I remem- 
ber times when I had at school such re- 
sponsibility of repression resting on me, 
and proved unfaithful. 

There! to severely correct them, a boy 
and girl are placed beside each other — a 
style of punishment greater at that age than 
ever after. Here is a boy making way 
with an apple behind his lifted book. I ex- 
pect some one will cry out, "John Greed is 
eating an apple!" for it is a peculiarity of 



230 Crumbs Swept Up. 

children under ten years of age (?) that 
they do not Hke others to have that which 
they themselves cannot get. Whether it 
be right or wrong, in their estimation, de- 
pends on whether themselves or somebody 
else has the apple. 

Just outside the school-room door is a 
boy showing his strength. As he turns up 
his arm in the light, he says, through the 
art of the painter, ''Do you see that mus- 
cle?" He is good at a wrestle, can run 
round all the bases at one stroke of the 
bat, can take the part of a wronged urchin, 
and I fear, if the school-dame comes too 
suddenly at him with the stick, she may 
lose the glass out of her spectacles. There 
will be no Sunday-school books made 
about him, although out of his brawn of 
body, and mind, and soul, there may yet 
come an Oliver Cromwell, or a Martin 
Luther. 

Thank Thomas Webster for taking us 
back to school by his painting! It is the 
only way we should like to go back. We 
had rather be almost anything than a boy, 
the world so little understands him. 

ROSA BONHEUR. 

We owe not more to the painters than 
to the engravers, although for the most 
part we let them sit, with worn fingers and 
half-extinguished eyes, begrudging them 



Pictures Felt, 231 

the few shillings we pay them for their ex- 
pensive work. They are mediators be- 
tween us and the great pictures of the 
world. They popularize art. The people, 
through drinking these lighter wines, feel 
the taste for pictures growing on them, till 
they must have the stronger and intoxicat- 
ing portions of art, mixed by a Rembrandt 
or Claude Lorraine. And so we can see 
Raphael's "Transfiguration" without going 
to Rome; Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Sup- 
per" without going to Milan; Angelo's 
"Three Fates" without going to Florence; 
and Rosa Bonheu-r's "Horse Fair" without 
going to London. 

But there are many of the best pictures 
that have never attracted the engraver's art, 
and, for the most part, the world is ig- 
norant of them. In Luxembourg Gallery, 
at Paris, hanging in a very poor light, or 
rather first-rate darkness, is a hay-gather- 
ing scene, by Rosa Bonheur. After for 
hours looking upon helmets, and swords, 
and robes, and prim parterres, where grass 
does not grow without asking the gar- 
dener, and there are impossible horses on 
impossible roads, carrying impossible 
riders, I came upon this country-scer-^, in 
imagination threw myself down on the 
grass, and unbuttoned my shirt-collar to 
let the air of the fields strike the skin clear 
down to the chest. The weather is showery. 



232 Crumbs Swept Up. 

It will rain in twenty minutes. The men, 
aware of this, are has4:ening in the load. 
The hair oi this workman is soaked with 
sw^at, and hangs in strings, as if just out of 
a dripping bath. The women work so 
awkwardly you feel that the plac'e for them 
is the house. The one on the load is evi- 
dently not so anxious to pack the hay as 
to save her own neck, in case the oxen 
should start. She feels it a risky business 
on an uneven field to stand on a rocking 
load. A rosy, white-capped maiden, of 
seventeen years, standing with rake in 
hand, does not work very fast. She is at an 
age when maidens are apt to take it some- 
what easy. She does not think it will hurt 
the hay much if it does get wet. Besides 
that, the shower may pass around. A 
workman is looking at her bright face. He, 
too, has forgotten the showery weather. 
No use, my dear fellow! You are too old 
for her. From her absent look, I know 
she is thinking now of the nightfall, and of 
some one who will come in clean smock, 
tying his horse at the gate. The oxen stand 
waiting for orders to go on, calm, stupid, 
honest, sinewy-necked, a skein of foam 
hanging from their lower lip. 

On this ox's back a fountain of sweat 
starts, but is dissipated in the thick gloss. 
In this dark ox, the night of the face is 
dawning into light beyond the hill of the 



Pictures Felt. 233 

shoulder. They look like the yoke that 
answered our own command of ''Whoa! 
haw! gee!" needing to have the language 
translated by an occasional stroke of the 
goad, determined to get into the shadow 
of a tree, though the load upset, taking 
plenty of time, with the exception of some 
very uncertain starts in fly-time, hardly 
ever so resigned as when it is their duty to 
stand still. 

Oxen were only intended for very good 
people to drive, for it demands grace to do 
it. The man who excused himself from 
going to the king's feast because he had 
bought a yoke of oxen, gave a more plaus- 
ible excuse than the others; for I suppose 
the new team had balked, or upset the 
wagon, or had really started for the king's 
house, but came with so lazy a gait that 
their master was not in time for the enter- 
tainment. 

But we say nothing against these faith- 
ful creatures. They do heavy work for 
small compensation — a few carrots and a 
forkful of hay. They pant in the heat and 
shiver in the cold, and, shutting their eyes 
and dropping their horns aslant, they press 
through the hailstorm. The Bible says that 
God takes care for oxen. 

The next best thing to being in the 
country is to have Rosa Bonheur, in a pic- 
ture-gallery, plunge us into a hay-field. 



234 Crumbs Swept Up. 

The stroke of a reaper's rifle on the scythe 
is to me a reveille. The past comes back, 
and in a moment I am a boy, with a bas- 
ket of luncheon, on the way to the men in 
the harvest-field, finding them asleep un- 
der the trees, taking their ''nooning." 
Their appetites were sharper than their 
whetted scythes. Those men are still tak- 
ing their nooning under the trees, but it is 
a sounder sleep. Death has ploughed for 
them the deep furrow of a grave. 

I forgive Rosa Bonheur that she wears 
a rowdy hat, and is fond of lounging about 
slaughter-houses, now, as I stand before 
this picture of the hay-scene. Like the be- 
witched workman who looked into the 
maiden's face, we forget it is showery 
weather, until it is four o'clock, and the 
guard of the gallery, with cocked hat, and 
red sash, and flaming sword, comes round 
to drive us out of Paradise. 



-)o(- 



RIP-RAP. 

A man, like a book, must have an index. 
He is divided into chapters, sections, pages, 
preface, and appendix; in size, quarto, 
octavo, or duodecimo, and bound in cloth, 
morocco antique, or half calf. The dress, 
the gait, the behavior are an index to the 



Rip-Rap, 235 

contents of this strange book, and give you 
the number of the page. 

But I think we may also estimate charac- 
ter by the way one knocks at the door of a 
house, or rings the bell. We have friends 
whose coming is characteristically in- 
dicated by the sound at the door. They 
think to surprise us, but their first touch of 
the door reveals the secret, and we rush out 
in the hall, crying, *'I knew it was you!" 
The greeting we receive at many a house- 
hold is, *T knew the ring!" 

We look with veneration at the old door- 
knocker, which, black with the stain of ele- 
ments, and telling a story of many genera- 
tions, hangs at the entrance of the home- 
stead. It has none of the frivolous jingle of 
a modern door-bell. It never jokes, but 
speaks in tones monosyllabic, earnest, sol- 
emn, and alv/ays to the point. In olden 
times, the houses were wide apart, and peo- 
ple so busy it was not more than once or 
twice a week that the old iron clapper 
sounded at all, and then it would go off 
with such sudden bang that the whole fam- 
ily jumped, and wondered who was com- 
ing there. 

The long-promised visit from a neighbor 
was to take place that night. The hickory- 
nuts were cracked, the cider was already in 
the pitcher, the apples were wiped, and the 
doughnuts piled up in the closet. The 



236 Crumbs Swept Up. 

children sat at the fire waiting for the ar- 
rival of the guests. It seemed as if the 
visitors v^ould never come; but at last, 
rousing up all the echoes of hall, and cel- 
lar, and garret, the long-silent knocker 
went Rip — rap! and there was a shaking ofif 
of the snow, and running up stairs with 
hats, and pulling up of chairs at the hearth, 
and snufhng of candles, and hauling out of 
the knitting-work, and loud clatter and 
gufifaw of voices, some of which have for a 
good while been still. At the first clap of 
the knocker, silence fell dead. There is a 
very festoon of memories hanging on the 
old door. The sailor-boy far at sea won- 
ders if it looks just as it used to when he 
played on the sill, and imagines himself 
standing with his hand on the knocker, 
and in his dream is startled to hear it go 
off, waking up to find that it is only an 
ice-glazed rope in the rigging, going "Rip 
— rap! Rip — rap!" 

The hearty, enthusiastic man always 
gives a characteristic ring. When he puts 
his hand on the knob, it seems as if the bell 
would go crazy. It flies up and down the 
house with racket, and after it seems to be 
about through, starts up again as if it 
meant to apologize for stopping. The 
nurse runs down from the bedroom, and 
the cook comes up from the kitchen, and 
the children bend over the banisters, and 



Rip-Rap. 237 

the father, who was taking an afternoon 
nap, bounds to the floor, shouting, *'What 
on earth is the matter?" And you look at 
the clapper of the bell, and find it swinging 
yet, as if it were getting ready for another 
volley. 

When our inanimate friend comes to see 
us, he makes no disturbance. His liver has 
for several years been on a strike, and his 
blood acts as if it would have stopped cir- 
culation entirely, but for its respect for 
William Harvey. In his ordinary walk, 
each step is so undecided that you know 
not whether he is going on, or is about to 
stop and spend the evening. As he pulls 
your bell, you hear the tongue creak in 
the socket, but no decided ring. You go 
out in the hall to see if the bell is in mo- 
tion. You wait for a more decided demon- 
stration, and in about five minutes there is 
just one, little, delicate tap that lets you 
know the gentleman at the door is still 
breathing. The door-bell imposes on such 
men, and hangs idly about, gossiping with 
bedroom and parlor bells, and deserves to 
have a good shaking. 

Beggars have a characteristic knock. 
This man with a printed certificate that he 
was blown up with Vesuvius, and drowned 
in the Mississippi, and afterward killed on 
the New Jersey Central, and considerably 
injured in other respects, comes against 



238 Crumbs Swept Up. 

your basement-door with an emphasis in- 
describable. He feels that you have what 
belongs to him. His knuckles are hard by 
much practice. When he strikes your door, 
it means, ''Stand and deliver!" But some 
nig-ht, about ten o'clock, 3^ou hear some- 
thing at the basement. It is a cold night, 
and you think it is only the wind rattling 
the shutters; but after a while you hear it 
again — a faint tap, as though it were not 
made with the ^-nuckle, but the nail of the 
little finger. You open the door, and be- 
fore a word is returned, you read in her 
face: "No fire! Nobreadforthechildren! No 
coverlets to keep them warm! No hope!" 
She had been at a dozen doors before, but 
had knocked so softly there was no re- 
sponse. She did not dare to touch the bell 
lest it might with garrulous tongue tell all 
her woe. Is any one watching that woman 
in the thin shawl? Did any ear listen to 
the craunch of that woman's foot in the 
crisp snow? When she struck the nail of 
her litle finger against the cold basement 
door, was the stroke drowned by the night- 
wind? No! It sounded farther than the 
heavy bang of the sturdy beggar — louder 
than the clang of forge, or pounding of 
gauntleted fist of warrior at castle-gate. 
Against the very door of heaven it struck, 
and sounded through the long, deep cor- 
ridors of Infinite pity: "Rip — rap! Rip 



Rip-Rap. 239 

Children will wake up early in the morn- 
ing. Perhaps you have been disturbed in 
the night, and gone wandering around the 
room in your somnolent state, as much 
confused as ourselves on one occasion, 
when, at midnight, we heard a croupy 
cough in the nursery, and gave the ipecac 
to the wrong baby. Just as you begin 
your last morning nap, you hear a stir in 
the adjoining room. The trundle-bed is 
evidently discharging a lot of bare feet on 
the floor. You hear suppressed laughter at 
the door, slipping out into an occasional 
shout as one of them applies the force of a 
tickle to the bottom of the other's feet. 
You are provoked to be interrupted at such 
unseasonable hours, and proclaim children 
a nuisance. You are glad that the door is 
locked. But they rattle the knob. They 
blow through the keyhole. They push 
slips of paper under the door, and, getting 
more and more bold, they knock. Ten 
fingers, tipped with the rosy tints of the 
morn, are running races up and down the 
panel. Your indignation begins to cool, 
and your determination not to admit is 
giving way. The noise of fingers is inter- 
mingled with the stroke of dimpled fists. 
At last you open the door, and there bursts 
in a snow-flurry of night-gowns, and they 
bound along, brunette and blonde, wild as 
young Arabs. The lock that would have con- 



240 Crumbs Swept Up. 

founded burglar, and the bolt that strong- 
est hand could not have broken, flew open 
at the touch of the tip-end of a baby's 
finger. 

The roughest knock that ever strikes the 
door is a sheriff's knock as he comes to 
levy on the furniture. The gentlest knock 
is that of a comforter as she arrives to tell 
us of the good times coming. The glad- 
dest, merriest ring of the door-bell is at the 
holiday festival, when six children, after 
long absence, come to the homestead, all 
talking at once, and asking questions, 
without waiting for answers before they ask 
more, and talking over boyhood and girl- 
hood days, and bringing down the old 
cradle from the garret, and dressing up 
mother in her faded wedding-dress, and 
continuing to laugh, and cry, and kiss, and 
shout, and turn somersaults, and cut up 
and cut down, till the door-bell is mad at 
the disturbance, and solemnly vows, 'T 
will never ring again for such a company as 
this!" And it keeps its word. Better each 
one take a leaf of the Christmas-tree, for 
it is the last one that shall ever grow in 
that house. The door-bell had told many 
a lie, pretending that some one worth see- 
ing had come, but this time it told the 
truth. That was the last holiday scene in 
which the six mingled. Another bell took 
up the strain, but it was deep and slow, 



The Right Track, 241 

and the sound came down from the old 
church-beh'ry as though the door-bell of 
heaven had tapped at the going in of a soul. 
Not one of the six was compelled to stand, 
with weary rip-rap, banging at the celestial 
door, for the faces of their friends were 
pressed against the window, watching. 
And the table was already spread, and the 
pomegranates, piled up on the caskets, 
were so ripe that the rinds did burst at the 
first touch of the lip. And with oldest 
wine of heaven, more than eighteen hun- 
dred years ago by two scarred hands 
pressed from grapes of Eshcol, they did 
rise up, chalice gleaming to chalice, and 
drank "To the rescue!" 



-)o(- 



THE RIGHT TRACK. 

There are thousands of persons in places 
where they do not belong. The bird's 
wing means air, the fish's fin means water, 
the horse's hoof means solid ground; and 
what would happen if the bird tried the 
water, and the fish tried the air, happens 
when men get out of their natural element. 
In my watch, the spring cannot exchange 
places with the wheels, nor the cogs with 
the pivots. "Stay where I put you!" cries 
the watchmaker, "if you want to keep good 



242 Crumbs Swept Up. 

time!" Now, the world is only a big- watch 
that God wound up, and the seasons are 
the hands which tell how fast the time is 
going. ''Stay where I put you!# says our 
great Creator. Or, if you prefer, human 
society is a ship. Some are to go ahead; 
they are the prow. Some are to stay be- 
hind and guide those who lead; they are 
the helm. Some are to be enthusiastic and 
carry the flag; they are the masts. Some 
are to do nothing but act as a dead weight; 
they are shoveled in as ballast. Some are 
to fume and fret and blow; they are the 
valves. 

Our happiness and success depend on be- 
ing where we belong. A scow may be ad- 
mirable, and a seventy-four gun-ship may 
be admirable, but do not put the scow on 
the ocean, or the ship-of-the-line in a mill- 
pond. Fortune is spoken of as an old 
shrew, with hot water, shovel, and tongs, 
pursuing the innocent. But, though some- 
times losing her temper, she mostly ap- 
proves those who are in their sphere, and 
condemns those who are where they do 
not belong. 

How, then, account for the success of 
such persons as Elihu Burritt and Hugh 
Miller — the former a blacksmith, yet show- 
ing unbounded capacity for the acquisition 
of languages; the latter a stone-mason, and 
yet, as though he were one of the old 



The Right Track, 243 

burfed Titans come to life, pressing up 
through rocks and mountains, until, shak- 
ing from his coat a world of red sand-stone, 
and washing off from his hands the dust of 
millions of years, he takes the professor's 
chair in a college? We answer, different 
men want different kinds of colleges. The 
anvil was the best school-desk for Elihu 
Burritt, and quarry-stone for Hugh Miller. 
The former, among the cinders and horse- 
shoes, learned that patient toil which was 
the secret of his acquisition in the lan- 
guages. The latter, from observations 
made while toiling with chisel and crowbar, 
laid the foundation of his wonderful attain- 
ments, one shelf of rock being worth to 
him more than the hundred shelves of a 
college-library. 

Some men get into an occupation below 
that for which they are intended. They 
have their "seventy-four" in the mill-pond. 
They do not get along as well in that posi- 
tion as somebody with less brains. An ele- 
phant would make wretched work if you 
set it to hatch out goose-eggs, but no more 
wretched than a man of great attainments 
appointing himself to some insignificant 
office. 

Men are often in a position a little above 
that for which they were intended. Now 
the old scow is out on the ocean. The 
weights of a clock said, "Come! come! 



244 Cntmbs Swept Up. 

This is dull work down here I I want to be 
the pendulum!" But the pendulum shouted 
upward. "I'm tired of this work! It does 
not seem that I make any progress going 
backward and forward! Oh! that I were 
the hands!" Under this excitement, the old 
clock, which had been going ever since the 
Revolutionary' War, stopped stock-still. 
"What is the matter now, my old friend?" 
says the gray-haired patriarch. For ver\- 
shame, not a word was said until the old 
man set it a-going. Then the striking-bell 
spoke up and said. "Nothing! only the 
weights wanted to be the pendulum, and 
the pendulum wanted to be the hands!" 
**Well! well!" said grandfather, "this is 
great work!" and the old man. losing his 
patience, gave the clock a gentle slap in 
the face, and told the pendulum hereafter 
to hold its tongue, and said to the weights, 
"You be hanged!" 

But how may we know if we are in our 
right place — not an inch above, not an inch 
below? If you can perform your work 
easily, without being cramped or exhausted, 
that is the right place. That man is in a hor- 
rible condition who is ever making prodi- 
^ous effort to do more than he can do. 
It is just as easy for a star to swing in its 
orbit as for a mote to float in a sunbeam. 
Xature never sweats. The great law of 
gravitation holds the universe on its back 



The Right Track. 245 

as easily as a miller swings over his shoul- 
der a bag of Genesee wheat. The winds 
never run themselves out of breath. The 
rivers do not weary in their course. The 
Mississippi and the Amazon are no more 
tired than the meadow-brook. Himalaya 
is not dizzy. 

Poets talk about the waters of Niagara 
being in an agony, but I think they like it. 
How they frolic and clap their hands miles 
above, as they come skipping on toward 
the great somersault, singing, "Over we 
go! over we go!" When the universe goes 
at such tremendous speed, and the least 
impediment might break one of the great 
wheels, is it not a wonder that we do not 
hear a prodigious crack, or thunderous 
bang, loud enough to make the world's 
knees knock together? Yet a million 
worlds in their flight do not make as much 
noise as a honey-bee coquetting among 
the clover-tops. Everything in nature is 
just as easy. Now, if the position you oc- 
cupy requires unnatural exertion, your only 
way out is either to take a step higher, or a 
step further down. Providence does not 
demand that you should break your back, 
or put your arm out of joint, or sprain 
your ankle. If you can only find out just 
what you are to do, you can do it perfectly 
easy. 

Let the young be sure to begin right. 



246 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Not once in a thousand times does a man 
successfully change occupations. The sea 
of life is so rough that you cannot cross 
over from one vessel to another except at 
great peril of falling between. Many have 
fallen down to nothing between the mason's 
trowel and the carpenter's saw; between 
the lawyer's brief and the author's pen; be- 
tween the medicine-chest and the pulpit. 
It is no easy matter to switch ofif on another 
track this thundering express-train of life. 
A daffodil and a buttercup resolved to 
change places with each other, but in cross- 
ing over from stem to stem, they fell at the 
feet of a heart's-ease. "J^^st as I expected!" 
said Heart's-ease. "You might better have 
stayed in your places!" 



-)o(- 



RIDING THE HORSE TO BROOK. 

In these days, if a boy would go a horse- 
backing, he must have gay caparison — sad- 
dle of the best leather, stirrups silvered, 
martingales bestarred, housing flamboyant, 
tasseled whip, jingling spurs, gauntleted 
hands, and crocodile boots able to swallow 
him to above the knee. 

But we are persuaded that is not the best 
w^ay for a boy to ride. About seven o'clock 
in the morning, the farm-horses having had 



Riding the Horse to Brook. 247 

oats and currying, must be taken to the 
brook for the watering. The halter is 
caught into a half hitch around the horse's 
nose, and, bringing him to the fence, the 
boy leaps astride. It is no rare occurrence 
that, in his avidity to get aboard, the boy 
slides off on the other side of the animal, 
and it is fortunate if the latter, taking ad- 
vantage of the miscalcuktion, does not fly 
away with a wild snort, finding his way to 
the brook. 

But once thoroughly mounted, the rope- 
halter is helm and sail sufficient. It is 
very easy to guide a thirsty horse w^hen 
you want to take him to water. A poke of 
3^our bare feet into his ribs, and a strong 
pull of the rope, are enough to bring him 
back from any slight divergencies. Pass- 
ing through the bars, all you have to do is 
to gather up your feet on his warm, smooth 
back, and having passed the post, again 
drop anchor. Nothing looks more spirited 
or merry than a boy's feet bouncing against 
the sides of a glistening bay. The horse 
feels them, and the more briskly gallops 
down the lane. 

At his first plunge into the brook his sud- 
den stop would have sent the boy somer- 
saulting into the stream, but for a quick 
digging of the heels into the side, and a 
clutch of the scant lock of hair at the end 
of the mane. With lip and nostril in the 



248 Crumbs Swept Up. 

stream, the horse cares nothing for what 
his young rider wills. There may be a 
clearer place below that the boy chooses for 
the watering, but the horse lifts not his 
head to the shout, or the jerk of halter, or 
stroke in the flanks. He wants to drink 
just there; intent upon that are mouth, and 
gullet, and fetlock, and spot in the face. 
Sitting astride, the boy feels the jerk of 
each swallow, and sees the accompanying 
wag of the pony's ears. The horse lifts his 
head, takes a long breath, clashes his teeth, 
and rinsing his jaws drops the tuft of hay 
that lingered in his mouth, with right foot 
paws up the gravel from beneath, giving 
notice that he is ready, if you are, throws 
himself back on his hind feet till his front 
lift from the mud, gives a quick turn, and 
starts for the barn. In a minute he has 
made the length of the lane, and stands 
neighing for the barn-door to open. 

This ride was the chief event of the day. 
Alas, if there are only two horses, when 
there are four boys! for two of them are 
disappointed, and keep their grudge for the 
most of the day. You linger about the barn 
for hours, and pat Pompey on the nose, 
and get astride his back in the stable, and 
imagine how it would be if it were only 
time to ride him down again. 

We would like to have in our photo- 
graph album a picture of the horses that in 



Riding the Horse to Brook. 249 

boyhood we rode to the watering. Sitting 
here, thinking of ah their excellencies, we 
forgive them for all the times they threw 
us off. The temptation was too great for 
them, and the mud where we fell was soft. 
The dear old pets! One of them was sold, 
and as he was driven away we cried such 
large tears, and so many of them, that both 
coat-sleeves were insufficient to sop up the 
wretchedness. Another broke its leg, and 
it was taken to the woods and shot. We 
went into the house and held our ears, lest 
we should hear the cruel bang that an- 
nounced the departure of our favorite sor- 
rel. Another stayed on the place, and was 
there when we left home. He was always 
driven slowly, had grown uncertain of foot, 
and ceased to prance at any sight or sound. 
You could no longer make him believe that 
a wheelbarrow was anything supernatural, 
nor startle him by shaking out a buffalo- 
skin. He had outlived all his contem- 
poraries. Some had frisked out a frivolous 
life, and had passed away. Some had, after 
a life of kicking and balking, come to an 
ignominious end; but old Billy had lived 
on in an earnest way, and every Sunday 
morning stood at the door waiting for the 
family to get in the wagon and ride tx) 
church. Then he would jog along serious- 
ly, as if conscious that his church privileges 
would soon be gone. In the long line of 



250 Crumbs Swept Up, 

tied horses beside the church, he would 
stand and Hsten to the songs inside. While 
others stamped, and beat the flies, and got 
their feet over the shafts, and slipped the hal- 
ter, and bit the nag on the other side of the 
tongue, Billy had more regard for the day 
and place, and stood, meditative, and de- 
corous. If there be any better place than 
this world for good horses, Billy has gone 
there. He never bolted; he never kicked. 
In ploughing, he never put his foot over 
the trace; he never balked; he never put 
back his ears and squealed. A good, kind, 
faithful, honest, industrious horse was he. 
He gave us more joy than any ten-thou- 
sand-dollar courser could give us now. No 
arched stallion careering on Central Park, 
or foam-dashed Long Islander racer, could 
thrill us like the memory of that family 
roadst'^^r 

Alas, for boys in the city, who never ride 
a horse to brook! An afternoon airing in 
ruffles, stifif and starched, and behind a 
costumed driver, cannot make up for this 
early disadvantage. The best way to start 
life is astride a farm-horse, with a rope- 
halter. In that way you learn to rough it. 
You are prepared for hard bounces on the 
road of life; you learn to hold on; you get 
the habit of depending on your own heels, 
and not upon other people's stirrups; you 
find how to climb on without anybody to 



Ghosts, 251 

give you a boost. It does not hurt you so 
much when you fall off. And some day, 
far on in life, when you are in the midst of 
the hot and dusty city, and you are weary 
with the rush and din of the world, in your 
imagination you call back one of these 
nags of pleasant memory. You bring him 
up by the side of your study, or counting- 
room table, and from that you jump on, 
and away you canter through the old-time 
orchard, and by the old-time meeting- 
house, or down the lane in front of the 
barn, dashing into the cool, sparkling water 
of the meadow, where he stops to take his 
morning dram; or you hitch him up to the 
rocking-chair in which you have for twenty 
years sat rheumatic and helpless, and he 
drags you back some Sunday morning to 
the old country church, where many years 
ago he stood tied to the post, while you, 
with father and mother at either end of the 
pew, were learning of the land where there 
is no pain, and into which John looked, 
and said, "I saw a white horse!" 



■)o(- 



GHOSTS. 

It is difficult to escape from early super- 
stitions. You reason against them, and 
are persuaded that they are unworthy of a 



252 Crumbs Swept Up, 



man of common sense; and yet you cannot 
shake them off. You heard fifty years ago 
that Friday was an unlucky day. You 
know better. You recollect that on Friday 
Luther and William Penn were born, and 
the Stamp Act was repealed, and the Hud- 
son river discovered, and Jamestown set- 
tled, and the first book printed. Yet you 
have steered clear of Friday. You did 
not commence business on Friday. You 
did not get married on Friday. You would 
not like it if the governor of the State pro- 
claimed Thanksgiving for Friday. The 
owners of steamships are intelligent men, 
but their vessels do not start on Friday. 

If early superstitions were implanted in 
your mind, you do not like to return to the 
house to get anything when you have once 
started on a journey. Perhaps you are 
careful how you count the carriages at a 
funeral. You prefer to see the new moon 
over the right shoulder. Though you 
know there is nothing in the story of ghosts 
which your nurse or some one about the 
old place used to tell you, yet you would a 
little rather not rent a house that has the 
reputation of being haunted; and when 
called to go by a country grave-yard after 
twelve o'clock at night, you start an argu- 
ment to prove that you are not afraid. 

We never met but one ghost in all our 
life. It was a very dark night, and we were 



01 



Ghosts. 253 

seven years of age. There was a German 
cooper, who, on the outskirts of the village, 
had a shop. It was an interesting spot, and 
we frequented it. There was a congrega- 
tion of barrels, kegs, casks, and firkins, 
that excited our boyish admiration. There 
the old man stood day after day, hammer- 
ing away at his trade. He was fond of talk, 
and had his head full of all that was weird, 
mysterious, and tragic. During the course 
of his life he had seen almost as many 
ghosts as firkins; had seen them in Ger- 
many, on the ocean, and in America. 

One summer afternoon, perhaps having 
made an unusually lucrative bargain in 
hoop-poles, the tide of his discourse bore 
everything before it. We hung on his lips 
entranced. We noticed not that the shad- 
ows of the evening were gathering, nor re- 
membered that we were a mile from home. 
He had wrought up our boyish imagina- 
tion to the tip-top pitch. He had told us 
how doors opened when there was no hand 
on the latch, and the eyes of a face in a 
picture winked one windy night; and how 
intangible objects in white would glide 
across the room, and headless trunks rode 
past on phantom horses; and how boys on 
the way home at night were met by a 
sheeted form, that picked them up and car- 
ried them ofif, so that they never were heard 
of, their mother going around as discon- 



254 Crumbs Swept Up. 

solate as the woman in the ''Lost Heir," 
crying, "Where's Billy?" 

This last story roused us up to our 
whereabouts, and we felt we must go home. 
Our hair, that usually stood on end, took 
the strictly perpendicular. Our flesh crept 
with horror of the expedition homeward. 
Our faith in everything solid had been 
shaken. We believed only in the subtle 
and in the intangible. What could a boy 
of seven years old depend upon if one of 
these headless horsemen might any mo- 
ment ride him down, or one of these 
sheeted creatures pick him up? 

We started up the road. We were bare- 
foot. We were not impeded by any use- 
less apparel. It took us no time to get 
under way. We felt that if we must perish, 
it would be well to get as near the doorsill 
of home as possible. We vowed that, if we 
were only spared this once to get home, we 
would never again allow the night to catch 
us at the cooper's. The ground flew under 
our feet. No headless horseman could have 
kept up. Not a star was out. It was the 
blackness of darkness. We had made half 
the distance, and were in "the hollow" — 
the most lonely and dangerous part of the 
way — and felt that in a minute more we 
might abate our speed and take fuller 
breath. But, alas! no such good fortune 
awaited us. Suddenly our feet struck a 



Ghosts, 255 

monster — whether beastly, human, infernal, 
or supernal, witch, ghost, demon, or head- 
less horseman, we could not immediately 
tell. We fell prostrate, our hands passing 
over a hairy creature; and, as our head 
struck the ground, the monster rose up, 
throwing our feet into the air. To this day 
it would have been a mystery, had not a 
fearful bellow revealed it as a cow, which 
had lain down to peaceful slumber in the 
road, not anticipating the terrible collision. 
She wasted no time, but started up the 
road. We, having by experiment discov- 
ered which end of us was up, joined her in 
the race. We knew not but that it was the 
first instalment of disasters. And, there- 
fore, away we went, cow and boy; but the 
cow beat. She came into town a hundred 
yards ahead. I have not got over it yet, 
that I let that cow beat. 

That was the first and last ghost we ever 
met. We made up our mind for all time 
to come that the obstacles in life do not 
walk on the wind, but have either two legs 
or four. The only ghosts that glide across 
the room are those of the murdered hours 
of the past. When the door swings open 
without any hand, we send for the lock- 
smith to put on a better latch. Sheeting 
has been so high since the war, that appa- 
ritions will never wear it again. Friday is 
an unlucky day only when on it we behave 



256 Crumbs Swept Up. 

ill. If a salt-cellar upset, it means no mis- 
fortune, unless you have not paid for the 
salt. Spirits of "the departed have enough 
employment in the next world to keep 
them from cutting up monkey-shines in 
this. Better look out for cows than for 
spooks. 

Here is a man who starts out in a good 
enterprise. He makes rapid strides. He 
will establish a school. He will reform in- 
ebriates. He will establish an asylum for 
the destitute. The enterprise is under 
splendid headway. But some lazy, stupid 
man, holding large place in community, 
defeats the project. With his wealth and 
influence he opposes the movement. He 
says the thing cannot be done. He does 
not want it done. He will trip It up; and 
so the great hulk of obesity lies down 
across the way. His stupidity and bea&tli- 
ness succeed. The cow beat! 

A church would start out on a grand 
career of usefulness. They are tired of 
husks, and chips, and fossils. The wasted 
hands of distress are stretched up for help. 
The harvest begins to lodge for lack of a 
sickle. A pillar of fire with baton of light 
marshals the host. But some church offi- 
cial, priding himself on aristocratic asso- 
ciation, and holding prominent pew, says, 
"Be careful! preserve your dignity. I am 
opposed to such a democratic religion! 



Ghosts. 257 

Heaven save our patent-leathers!" And, 
with mind stuffed with conceit and body 
stuffed with high hving, he Ues down 
across the road. The enterprise stumbles 
and falls over him. He chews the cud of 
satisfaction. The cow beat! 

I know communities where there are 
scores and hundreds of enterprising men; 
but some man in the neighborhood holds a 
large amount of land, and he will not sell. 
He has balked all progress for thirty years. 
The shriek of a steam-whistle cannot wake 
him up. The liveliest sound he wants to 
hear is a fisherman's horn coming round 
with lobsters and clams. His land is 
wanted for a school; but he has always 
thrived without learning, and inwardly 
thinks education a bad thing. At his 
funeral the spirit of resignation will be 
amazing to tell of. While he lives he will 
lie down across the path of all advance- 
ment. Public enterprises, with light foot, 
will come bounding on, swift as a boy m 
the night with ghosts after him; but only 
to turn ignominious somersault over his 
miserable carcass. The cow beat! 



■)o( 



17 



258 Crumbs Swept Up. 



DEATH OF NEWSPAPERS. 

There is a fearful mortality among 
periodicals. An epidemic has broken out 
which has brought to the last gasp many 
of the dailies, weeklies, and monthlies. 
During the last few weeks, scores of these 
have died of cholera infantum. Only a 
little while ago, they came forth with flam- 
ing prospectus and long list of eminent 
contributors ; but the places that knew them 
once know them no more. 

Men succeeding in nothing else have 
concluded it to be a providential indication 
that they should publish a paper. Many 
hundreds of thousands of dollars have been 
sunk, and every issue of the majority of 
the temperance, Sunday-school, religious, 
and political papers of the country is a 
plunge into debt from which they are hoping 
some purchaser will lift them out. It is a 
constant question in the community where 
religious newspapers go to when they die. 
We know where the basely partisan go to, 
without asking. 

The mania is fearful. Many of our lit- 
erary friends are uneasy till they have in- 
vested their last five thousand dollars in 
printer's ink. Nine-tenths of them may 
whistle for their money; but the dog will 
not come back, having found out some 



Death of Newspapers. 259 

other master. Why all this giving up of 
the ghost among newspapers? 

Some of them died for lack of being 
anathematized. Nothing ever succeeds in 
this country without being well cursed. If 
a man, or book, or periodical go forth un- 
assaulted, ruin is nigh. There is nothing 
that so decidedly lifts a thing up before the 
public gaze as the end of a bayonet. The 
neutral paper almost always fails, because 
it clears the scorn of parties and churches. 
Kicks and cuffs are an indispensable in- 
heritance. The more valuable the quarry, 
the more frequent the blasting. You can- 
not make wine without the crushing of the 
clusters. The most successful periodicals 
of the day are those that have been most 
violently hounded. 

Some of these papers died for lack of 
brains. A man may plead law or preach 
the gospel w^ith less intellect than is re- 
quired for the conduct of a paper. The 
editor must understand something of every- 
thing. He wants more than a scissors and 
a bottle of mucilage. If he merely retail 
the ideas of others,"the public will prefer to 
go up and get the thing at the wholesale 
establishment. He must be able, with 
strong and entertaining pen, to discuss 
governments, religions, educational enter- 
prises, social changes, books, amusements, 
men, institutions, everything. He must 



26o Cru7nbs Swept Up. 

have strength to take a thought on the end 
of his pen and fling it a thousand miles, 
till it strikes within an inch of the point 
at which he aimed it. 

Lack of capital has thrown others. Ink, 
paper, press, type, printers, editorial sal- 
,aries, contributors' fees, postal expenses, 
rent, machinery, necessary repairs, are tak- 
ing dow^n many large fortunes. The liter- 
ary enterprise is often crushed under its 
own cylinders, is drowned in its own ink, 
is chewed up with its own type, is shrouded 
in its own paper, has its epitaph in its own 
columns. The wider the circulation of the 
ill-managed newspaper, the more certain 
the doom. He who attempts to publish a 
paper without pockets full of ready cash, 
publishes his own discomfiture. Call on 
the witness-stand the hundreds of men who 
are now settling up the bills for their ex- 
tinct newspaper. Every mail brings to us 
the parting bow of retiring publishers, with 
pockets turned wrong-side out, from which 
hungry creditors are trying to milk out 
another shilling. 

We wonder not at the ambition that aims 
for the editorial chair. All other modes of 
affecting the public mind are narrow and 
weak compared with it. The pen is the 
lever that moves the world, and the ink- 
roller of the printing-press the battering- 
ram that smites into the dust the walls of 



City Fools in the Country. 261 

ignorance and sin. But the prees is a strong 
team to drive; and one must be sure of the 
harness and the wheels, or, coming along a 
steep place, there will be a capsize, and a 
wreck from under which the literary ad- 
venturers will no^ have strength to draw 
themselves. Phaeton's attempt to drive the 
chariot of the sun ended in a grand 
smash-up. 



■)o(- 



CITY FOOLS IN THE COUNTRY. 

Because a man is wise in some places, 
we are not to conclude that he is wise 
everywhere. You find men grandly suc- 
cessful in the counting-room and at the 
board of trade, whose commonsense for- 
sakes them 'as they cross the city limits. 

During the last few years, a multitude of 
men have left town for country life, with 
the idea that twenty thousand dollars, and 
a few books on agriculture, would make 
them successful farmers. They will take 
the prizes at the county fair. They will 
have the finest cattle, the most affluent 
hens, the most reasonable ducks, and the 
most cleanly swine. Their receipts will far 
outrun their expenses. The first year they 
are disappointed. The second year they 
collapse. The third year they tack to a 



262 Crumbs Swept Up. 

post the sign, "For Sale!" They knew not 
that agriculture is a science and a trade, 
and that a farmer might as well come in 
with his carpet-bag, set it down in the en- 
gineer's room of a Liverpool steamer, ex- 
pecting in ten minutes to start the machin- 
ery, and successfully guide the vess-el across 
the Atlantic, as one, knowing nothing of 
country life, to undertake to engineer the 
intricate and outbranching affairs of a 
large farm. As well set the milkmaid to 
write a disquisition on metaphysics, a rag- 
picker to lecturing on aesthetics. 

The city fool hastens out at the first beck 
of pleasant weather. He wishes to sit in 
what poets call "the lap of spring." We 
have ourselves sat, several times, in her lap, 
and pronounce her the roughest nurse that 
ever had anything to do with us. Through 
March, April, and May, for the last few 
years, the maiden seems to have been out 
of patience, and she blows, and frets, and 
spits in your face with storm, till, seeming- 
ly exhausted with worriment, she lies down 
at the feet of June. 

The family of the city fool are, for the 
first ten days after going into the country, 
kept in the house by bad weather. It is 
the Paradise of mud. The soft ground, en- 
raptured with the dainty feet of the city 
belle, takes their photograph all up and 
down the lane, and secures its pay by ab- 



City Fools in the Country. 263 

stmcting one of her overshoes up by the 
barn, and the other by the woods. Mud 
on the dress. Mud on the carriage-wheels. 
Mud an the door-step. A very carnival of 
mud! 

The city fool has great contempt for or- 
dinary stock, and talks only of ''high 
bloods." His cattle are all Ayrshires, or 
Shorthorns, or Devons. But for some rea- 
son, they do not give half as much milk as 
the awkward, unheraldic, mongrel breed 
that stand at nightfall looking through the 
neighbor's bars. 

The poultry of our hero are Golden 
Hamburgs, and Buff Dorkings, and Ben- 
galiers, and Cropple-crowns, and Black 
Polands and Chittaprats. But they are 
stingy of laying, and notwithstanding all 
the inducements of expensive coop, and 
ingenious nests, and handsome surround- 
ings, are averse to any practical or useful 
expression. They eat, and drink, and 
cackle, and do everything but lay. You 
feed them hot mush, and throw lime out of 
which they are to make the shell, and strew 
ashes to kill the lice, and call on them by 
all the glorious memory of a distinguished 
ancestry to do something worthy of their 
name, but all in vain. Here and there an 
^^g dropped in the mud in preference to 
the appointed place, gives you a specimen 
of what they might do if they only willed. 



264 Cruvibs Swept Up. 

We owned such a hen. We had g-iven an 
outrageous price for her. We lavished on 
that creature every possible kindness. 
Though useless she made more noise than 
all the other denizens of the barn-yard, and, 
as some faithful hen came from her nest, 
would join in the cackle, as much as to 
say, **Ain't we doing well?" We came to 
hate the sight of that hen. She knew it 
well, and as she saw us coming, would clear 
the fence with wild squawk, as if her con- 
science troubled her. We would not give 
one of our unpretending Dominies for 
three full-blooded Chittaprats. 

The city fool expects, with small outlay, 
to have bewitching shrubbery, and a very 
Fontainebleau of shade-trees, and pagodas, 
and summer-houses, and universal arbores- 
cence. He will be covered up with clematis 
and weigelia. The paths, white-graveled, 
innocent of weeds or grass, and round- 
banked, shall wind about the house, and 
twist themselves into all unexpectedness of 
beauty. If he cannot have a Chatsworth 
Park, nine miles in circumference, he will 
have something that will make you think of 
it. And all this will be kept in order with 
a few strokes of scythe, hoe, and trimming- 
knife. 

The city fool selects his country place 
without reference to socialities. He will 
bring a pocket-full of papers from the store, 



City Fools in the Country. 265 

which will be all his family will want to 
know of society and the world; and then a 
healthy library, from which shall look 
down all the historians and poets, will give 
them a surfeit of intellectualities. He does 
not know why his wife and daughters want 
to go back to town. What could be more 
gay? Market- wagons passing the door, 
and farmers going with grist to the mill, 
and an occasional thunder-storm to keep 
things lively, and the bawling of the cow 
recently bereft of her calf. Coming home be- 
sweated from the store, at night, the father 
finds the females crying on the piazza. 
What better concert do they want than the 
robins? What livelier beaux than the 
hedges of syringa? With a very wail of woe 
they cry out to the exasperating husband 
and father: 

"We want to see something!" 

"Good gracious!" he shouts, "go forth 
and look at the clouds, and the grass, and 
the Southdowns! one breath of this even- 
ing air is worth all the perfumes of fashion- 
able society!" 

There is apt to be disappointment in 
crops. Even a stupid turnip knows a city 
fool as soon as it sees him. Marrow-fat 
peas fairly rattle in their pods with deri- 
sion as he passes. The fields are glad to 
impose upon the novice. Wandering too 
near the beehive with a book on honey- 



266 Crumbs Swept Up. 

making, he got stung in three places. His 
cauHflower turn out to be cabbages. The 
thunder spoils his milk. The grass-butter, 
that he dreamed of, is rancid. The taxes 
eat up his profits. The drought consumes 
his corn. The rust gets in his wheat. The 
peaches drop off before they ripen. The 
rot strikes the potatoes. Expecting to sur- 
prise his benighted city-friends with a pres- 
ent of a few early vegetables, he accident- 
ally hears that they have had new potatoes, 
and green peas, and sweet corn for a fort- 
night. The bay mare runs away with the 
box-wagon. His rustic gate gets out of 
order. His shrubbery is perpetually need- 
ing the shears. It seems almost impossible 
to keep the grass out of the serpentine 
walks. A cow gets in and upsets the vase 
of flowers. The hogs destroy the water- 
melons, and the gardener runs off with the 
chamber-maid. Everything goes wrong, 
and farming is a failure. It always is a 
failure when a man knows nothing about it. 
If a man can afford to make a large outlay 
for his own amusement, and the health of 
his family, let him hasten to his country 
purchase. But no one, save a city fool, 
will think to keep a business in town, and 
make a farm financially profitable. 

There are only two conditions in which 
farming pays. The first, when a man makes 
agriculture a lifetime business, not yielding 



City Fools in the Country. 267 

to the fatal itch for town which is depopu- 
lating the country, and crowding the city 
with a multitude of men standing idle with 
their hands in their own or their neighbors' 
pockets. The other condition is, when a 
citizen with surplus of means, and weary 
of the excitements and confinements of city 
life, goes to the country, not expecting a 
return of dollars equal to the amount dis- 
bursed, but expects, in health, and recrea- 
tion, and communion with nature, to find 
a wealth compared with which all bundles 
of scrip and packages of Government se- 
curities are worthless as the shreds of paper 
under the counting-room desk in the 
waste-basket. Only those who come out of 
the heats of the town, know the full en- 
chantment of country life. Three years 
ago, on the prongs of a long fork, with 
which we tossed the hay into the mow, we 
pitched away our last attack of "the blues." 
We can beat back any despondency we 
ever knew with a hoe-handle. Born and 
brought up in the country, we have, ever 
since we left it, been longing to go back, 
though doomed for most of the time to 
stay in town. The most rapturous lay of 
poet about country life has never come up 
to our own experiences. Among the 
grandest attractions about the Heavenly 
City are the trees, and the rivers, and the 
white horses. When we had a place in the 



268 Crtcmbs Swept Up. 

Country, the banquet lasted all summer, 
beginning with cups of crocus, and ending 
with glowing tankards of autumnal leaf. 
At Belshazzar's feast the knees trembled 
for the finger that wrote doom, but the 
handwriting on our wall was that of honey- 
suckle and trumpet-creeper. 



•)o(- 



SUBLIME WRETCHEDNESS OF 
WATERING-PLACES. 

All the world may be divided into two 
classes — those who go to watering-places, 
and those who wish they could. In sum- 
mer, the tmemployed trunks, valises, and 
carpet-bags up in the attic, swell with envy 
until they almost burst their straps, pry off 
their lids, or demolish their buckles, as the 
express-wagons rattle the street, piled up 
with baggage marked for Lake George, 
Newport, or Clifton Springs. If the "castle 
in the air" that many of our business-men 
are building should alight, it would prob- 
ably come down on the Beach, or at the 
Springs. Give me fifteen glasses of fresh 
Congress water before breakfast, or I die ! 

For tens of thousands of our people the 
most delectable event in their home-life is 
their going away. Nothing must interfere 



Wretchedness of Watering-Places. 269 

with this. Papa's business may have been 
poor during the year, and every dollar may 
be necessary to keep the firm from a cap- 
size, but walk the beach with the Hardings 
they ought, climb Mount Washington they 
must, sip sulphur water they will. 

There are three orders of American no- 
bility. To the highest belong those who 
spend all the summer away. Give them full 
swing! Feel honored if they tread on your 
corns. They hold in their hand letters 
patent of nobility, namely, a hotel bill for 
eight or ten weeks' board at Bedford 
Springs. The second order are those who 
stay two or three weeks. Let them be 
honored! They were at six "hops," rode 
out twice to the races, and formed the ac- 
quaintance of the nephew of one of the 
staf¥ officers of General Burnside. All hail! 
Put down a strip of carpet from carriage to 
door-step as they come back. Make way 
for them on the church aisle. Here they 
come after three weeks at Ballston Spa. 
The lowest order are those who can only 
say that they were gone *'a few days." We 
would not by any means class them with 
those who stay at home, or merely go into 
the country, for they are on the way up, 
and in a few years may compass a whole 
month away. Many who once had no bet- 
ter prospects than they, have lived to spend 
six weeks in an attic at five dollars a day. 



270 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Many people, no doubt, gain great physi- 
cal and mental advantages from their stay 
at watering-p>aces. Toiling men and 
women find here a respite, make valuable 
acquaintance, and come home with 
stronger and steadier pulse. But there are 
a multitude that crowd these places, un- 
happy while they stay, and sick when they 
come home. What with small rooms, and 
tight clothes, and late hours, and slights, 
and heart-burnings, and nothing to do, it 
mfakes up what we call the sublime wretch- 
edness of watering-places. 

The Simingtons lived in a perfect palace 
on Rittenhouse Squarre. There was not a 
stone, or nail, or panel, or banister in all 
the house that seemed to be in anywise 
related to the nails, stones, panels, or ban- 
isters of the houses of common people. 
There was an air of pride and pomp in the 
mortar of the foundation — a very aristoc- 
racy of mud. The halls were wide, and ran 
straight through, ample enough to allow 
a military company to march and wheel. 
The stairs were mahogany, uncarpeted, but 
guarded by elaborately twisted rails, at 
every turn revealing a bust of marble look- 
ing at you from the niche in the wall. The 
exact size of the rooms had been sent to 
Axminster, with an order that the loom 
must do its best. The walls blossomed and 
bloomed with masterpieces. Bronze, with 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 271 

wing of chandelier, shook down the Hght. 
The golden links that drooped about the 
burners, in a gust of evening air zigzagged 
— the chain-lightning of uppertendom. 
There was a bewitching perfume which 
filled the house, and made you think that 
the wreaths in the plush and on the sil- 
vered paper of the wall were living flo-wers 
that held in their urns the ashes of all past 
generations of posies. The curtains stooped 
about the window graceful as the veil of a 
bride. The sleeping apartments were 
adorned with canopy, and embroidered 
pillow, and lounges, and books, and toilet- 
table of tinged marble, on which lay 
brushes and other apparatus with which 
heiresses smoothed, or frizzled, or curled, 
or twisted, or knotted, or waved, or 
crimped, or coiled, or bunched, or flumixed 
their hair. 

In a word, it was a great house, and or- 
dinary people seldom saw the inside of it, 
save when passing, as the door opened to 
let out a party to the flashing carriage that 
wheeled restlessly about the door. Indeed, 
on our small street we all tried to do as 
the Simingtons did. We saw how they 
wore their cravats, and that was the way 
we tied ours. They told us at the cane- 
store that Simington had just bought a 
peculiar handle, and we took one just like 
it. Our wives and daughters, instead of 



272 Cnimbs Swept Up. 

treading straight on as once when we took 
them to church, surprised us by a peculiar 
gait made up of teeter, swing, and waddle, 
which made us look down, and, in fear of 
their sudden paralysis, ask, ''What is the 
matter?" but we instantly saw that they 
were only taking on the way of the Sim- 
ingtons, and so we excused them. 

It was the first day of June, and the 
back room of the second story of that house 
looked as if it had been tossed of a whirl- 
wind. Two dress-makers of the first order 
were busy in preparing an outfit for the 
young ladies and their mother, who were 
soon to start for the watering-place. The 
floor, and table, and chairs, and divans 
were covered with patterns, and scissors, 
and fragments of silk, and flakes of cotton, 
and smoothing irons, and spools, and but- 
tons, and tassels, and skeins of silk, and 
rolls of goods from which the wrapping 
had just been torn, riding-habits green and 
black and flamboyant, pearl pendants and 
pipings of satin glittering with steel, bugles, 
and beads, and rings, and ribbons, sky- 
blue, grass-green or fire-tipped, and 
chenille and coral for the hair, and fringes, 
and gimps, and pufTs, and flutings, and 
braids, and bands, and bracelets, and neck- 
lets, and collars, and cuf^s, and robes of 
mohair, and dresses adorned with Cluny 
lace and Chambery gauze, and grenadines, 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 273 

and organdies, and tarlatans, and moreens, 
a package of Ivins's Patent Hair Crimper, 
and bandelets of straw bells, and a great 
variety of hats — shell hats, soup-plate hats, 
sailor hats, hats so small that they looked 
as if the bird lodged in the trimming were 
carrying them off, and hats that would not 
be taken for hats at all, a bottle of Upham's 
Freckle and Tan Banisher, and a vial of 
Swarthout's Pimple Extinguisher, and a 
box of Cruickshank's Wart Exterminator, 
and -a hundred other things the use of 
which you could not imagine, unless they 
were weapons with which to transfix hard- 
hearted bachelors, -or lassos with which to 
haul in unmanageable coquettes. All these 
things were to be matched, made up, fixed, 
sewed together, cut apart, organized, and 
packed in trunks. 

Matilda, the elder daughter, and Blanche, 
were flushed with the excitement of the 
great undertaking. Blanche had heard 
that Florence, the only daughter of the 
next-doo-r neighbor, was going to make 
her first appearance that year at the 
Springs, and the idea of being surpassed 
by that young snip, as Blanche called her, 
was a thing not to be borne. Every few 
moments the door-bell was rung by errand- 
boys from the stores on Chestnut Street, 
and while the servant was attending the 
door, Blanche would drop the patterns, 



274 Crumbs Swept Up. 

and run up and down the room in a state 
of nervousness that would have been un- 
justifiable were it not for the important 
preparations that were being made. 

Matilda was plainer, and more self-re- 
liant. The fact was that her childhood had 
been schooled in some hardships. The 
Simingtons had not always lived on Ritten- 
house Square. The father had belonged 
to that class of persons who have to work 
for a living, and Matilda had at one time 
been obliged to run of errands, scour the 
front steps, and wait on the door, while 
her mother did her own work. Now it 
is well known that while there may be 
romance about a maiden with sleeves 
rolled back from dimpled arms, wringing 
clothes in a mountain stream by the rude 
cabin of her father, there never has been 
and never will be any romance about a 
wash-tub in a city kitchen, the air hot and 
steamed, the apron soaked, the sweat run- 
ning to the tip of nose and chin, and the 
whole scene splashed with a magnitude of 
soapsuds, soda ash, and bags of bluing. 
Burns picked up poetry out of a mouse's 
nest, and Ralph Waldo Emerson can 
squeeze juice from a basket of chips, but 
no one has ever plucked up a canto from 
the depths of a wash-tub, or been able to 
measure poetic feet with a bar of soap. 
Who would think of rinsing clothes in the 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 275 

Aganippe? To this day Mrs. Simington's 
knuckles are big, and there is an unseemly 
healthiness about her cheek which three 
years of dissipation in very high life have 
been unable to conquer. 

Amid such uncomely circumstances, 
Matilda had nearly cocne to a practical, 
robust womanhood, when h^r father, Jeph- 
thah Simington, was invited into an oil 
speculation. (Jephthah was the Christian 
na'me given him by an ancestor who had 
a passion for Scripture names, although 
now he writes it simply J. Simington.) By 
an evening lamp six gentlemen met, made 
out a map of Venango County, located the 
oil-wells, ran creeks through wherever they 
ought to be, agreed on the number of 
shares, and appointed a committee to visit 
Elder Stringham of the Presbyterian 
church, and induce him to accept the presi- 
dency of the company, overcoming his 
scruples at entering an enterprise of which 
he knew nothing, by offering him a large 
number of shares; and by the same process 
securing as directors Deacon Long of the 
Baptist church, trustee Wilkinson of the 
Methodist, and vestryman Powell of the 
Episcopal. The shares flew. At the door 
of the company's ofl[ice, for several days, 
the people stood in rows, taking their 
chance, and one old gentleman had a rib 
broken by a woman of Celtic origin with 



276 Crumbs Swept Up. 

iron elbows, who crashed into his side as 
the Merrimac into the Cumberland, shout- 
ing, "You murtherin' wretch, git back. 
What do you mane by runnin' forninst a 
poor woman with five orphan children?" 

In this, as in several other projects of 
the kind, Simington went in on the 
''ground floor," and came out through "the 
cellar." All the people on our street were 
outraged and disgusted, for nearly all be- 
longed to some of the three thousand com- 
panies organized for the development of 
oil, and they all supposed that they had 
gone in on the "ground floor," but found 
that they had only entered the garret. It 
always shocks people's moral sensibilities 
when they find others successfully doing 
that which they failed in. But there were 
three or four little enterprises of this kind 
that bothered Simington at night when he 
said his pravers. Indeed, one ni^ht, as he 
came to the sentence, "If I should die be- 
fore I wake," he bounded up from his 
knees, and sat down at the table, and drew 
a check for a hundred dollars for the Mis- 
sionary Society, that Bibles might be sent 
to Ethiopia to make all the colored people 
honest; also a check for a hundred dollars 
for the printing of tracts on the sin of danc- 
ing; and another for the same amount to 
the fund for the relief of the destitute, some 
of them having been the victims of "those 



Wretchedness of Watering-Places. 277 

who devour widows' houses." Whereupon 
he felt better, went immediately to sleep, 
and dreamed of a heaven in which the 
rivers rolled oil, and the rocks gushed oil, 
and the trees dripped oil, and the skies 
rained oil, and, on a throne made out of 
"Slippery Rock," sat the prince of stock- 
auctioneers, crying, "And a half! and a 
half! going! gone!" 

No wonder the Simingtons so soon 
moved into a palace. But they had a world 
of trouble with their old acquaintances. It 
seemed impossible to shake off the nuis- 
ance. Blanche could hardly pass down the 
steps with Antonio Grimshaw, on the way 
to the opera, without having some woman 
in ordinary apparel a-sk, "How do you do, 
Blanche?" Whereupon she would frown, 
and stare, and almost look the offender 
down through the sidewalk; and when 
Antonio said, "Who w^as that?" Blanche 
would answer, "I don't know the horrid 
creature! It is probably our servant-girl's 
dress-maker!" It seemed to the Simingtons 
as if their life would be extinguished with 
the impudence of people. Oh! the disgrace 
of having a hack drive to the door, and a 
distant relative from the country dismount, 
holding a faded carpet-bag, the handles 
tied together by a rope; to go down to the 
parlor and have a gawk of a niece come up 
with a hat all over her head, and give you a 



278 Crumbs Swept Up, 

great smack, as though she had a right to 
kiss the Simingtons! 

But people have mostly learned to know 
their place by this time, and, unmolested 
by such untimely calls and disgusting re- 
membrances, the dresses are being fitted. 
[Matilda's shape had, by early industries, 
been made too robust for present circum- 
stances, and the dress-maker had an a\\^ul 
time with her. All the ingenuity of the 
house had been expended in tr\ing to di- 
minish her waist. The dress-maker 
pinched, and pulled, and twisted, and laced, 
and punched, and shook the stubborn Ma- 
tilda, who, in the painful process of being 
fitted, looked red, and pale, and blue, once 
in a while giving an outcry of distress, 
w'hich finally brought her mother to the 
rescue. "Matilda!" cried Mrs. Simington, 
**how can you go on so? You shall be left 
at home if you don't look out! You are a 
great awlcward thing. Why, when I was 
your age I could completely span my waist 
with my two hands!" ''Oh, mother! 
mother!'' answered Matilda, *'it is not my 
fault. The trouble is, there is not strength 
enough in the corsets!" 

The first day of July had come, and 
eleven trunks were lifted into the express- 
wajsron: one for the father, three for the 
mother, one for Frank, the only son, a 
young man of twenty-one, and six for 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 279 

Blanche and Matilda. Added to this was 
a bundle belonging to Rose, the black 
waiting-maid. It was a hot morning, the 
thermometer eighty-five in the shade. The 
cars were full of people, and the Simingtons 
were obliged to sit on the sunny side. None 
were willing to give up their seats, al- 
though Mrs. Simington for some seconds 
looked daggers at a gentleman who, she 
thought, might be more polite, and, not 
making any impression upon him, ran the 
point of her parasol accident-ally into his 
eye, and with a sudden swing of her skirts 
upset his valise. "What horrid creatures!" 
said Blanche. ''How plea-sant it would 
be to find some real gentleman!" It was 
the morning for an excursion. There were 
six extra cars, and all of them crowded. 
The rushing back and forward of such a 
herd of working-people pained the sensi- 
bilities of the whole Simington family, Ma- 
tilda excepted. She looked thoroughly 
placid, and said, ''Other people have as 
good a right to travel as we, and this hot 
weather, instead of making you pout, my 
dear sister, ought to fill us with thanksgiv- 
ing to God, for it will ripen the harvest, 
and make bread cheap for the poor." 

"Hush up, Matilda!" said Mrs. Siming- 
ton; "you will never get over your early 
mixing with those Methodists. We are 
going out to have a good time, and I don't 



28o Crumbs Swept Up. 

want to hear any more of your religious 
comments. Blanche was right. The 
weather is awful. Frank! what has become 
of your shirt-collar? Wilted out of sight, 
I declare!" The dust flew with every revolu- 
tion of 'the wheels. Frank had all the fam- 
ily by turns looking into his eye for a cin- 
der, and was so outraged that he went out 
on the platform to have what he called "a 
good swear," feit somewhat relieved, and 
came back, and, pulling down the lower 
lid of his eye, had his mother blow into it. 
But no cinder was to be found. Blanche 
said she did not believe there was anything 
the matter with it; whereupon Frank called 
her a name not at all eulogistic, and 
Blanche responded in terms more em- 
phatic than complimentary. 

J. Simington sat quiet, for he felt thor- 
oughly exhausted. His anxieties about the 
trunks, his misunderstanding with the por- 
ters, his confusion about the checks, and 
the purchase of five through tickets, had 
besweated him amazingly. When the agent 
cried out, ''Show your tickets!" the old 
gentleman missed one of them, felt in his 
coat-pocket, in his vest, in his duster, 
looked in his hat, looked under the seat, 
took out his pocket-book, had all the peo- 
ple rise and move their carpet-bags, and 
the ladies shake out their dresses, and re- 
peated the whole process several times, till 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 281 

the agent lost his patience and made the 
perplexed traveler pay again. What with 
the heat, and the dust, and the cinders, and 
the bad breath of the common people, the 
annoyance would have been unbearable to 
the Simingtons, had it not been for the 
self-control and imperturbable demeanor 
of Matilda, and the assurance which every 
now and then came to their minds that 
they were off on the especial business of 
having a good time. 

After much fatigue our party reach the 
watering-place, and go from the cars to a 
first-class hotel. While the family are wait- 
ing in the reception-room, J. Simington, 
Esquire, is at the clerk's desk registering 
the names. He writes them in full hand, 
supposing that a decided s-ensation will be 
produced among the guests and hotel offi- 
cials : 

J. Simington, 
Mrs. J. Simington, 
Frank Simington, 
Matilda Simington, 
Blanche Simington, 
And waiting-maid. 

Surely such signatures iipon the register 
will secure princely accommodations. 
"Give me three capacious rooms adjoining 
each other, on the first floor, sufficiently 
distant from all house-bells, in a place 



282 Crumbs Swept Up. 

where there will be no children passing the 
door, and free from all the odors of the 
dining-room, the windows commanding a 
fine landscape!" The clerk responded, 
"We will do the best we can for you, and 
will put down your name on a private list 
for better apartments when there is a va- 
cancy. It is our pride to make the guests 
comfortable. John! show these people up 

to 397. 398, 399." 

The procession start for the centre of the 
building, and go up this flight of stairs, up 
another, higher, higher, through this hall, 
out on that porch, higher, higher, around 
this corner, through that dark entry, higher, 
higher, the wrath of the Simingtons rising 
with every step of elevation, until, as the 
attendant opens the three doors and throws 
the shawls, umbrellas, and satchels on the 
bed, th'" guests are almost speechless with 
rage. Old Simington says, "This is out- 
rageous! They do not know who I am!" 
His wife says nothing, for she is out of 
breath from the exertion of climbing. 
Blanche bursts into tears. Frank ex- 
claimed, with several unsavory prefixes, 
"What a place to roost!" Matilda sat down 
and said, "Well, this is funny! but I guess 
we can make out. We will be rambling in 
the fields all day, and at night we can up 
here sleep so much nearer heaven." "Hush! 
you Methodist!" cried Mrs. Simington 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 283 

with her first gasp of utterance; "you will 
kill me yet with your religion. The top of 
a mean, dirty hotel, with the thermometer 
at three hundred, and no place to turn, or 
sit, or lay, is no place for moralizing." At 
this she gave a tremendous pull to the bell, 
and shouted at the servant, "What kind of 
a place do you call this? Dirty pillow- 
cases; damp sheets; no soap; thimbleful of 
water; one towel, and no ice-water. Who 
would have thought I could ever come to 
this? J. Simington! why did you bring me 
here?" "My dear!" interrupted the hus- 
band, as he began to make an explanation 
— "Be still!" cried Mrs. Simington; "you 
did it a-purpose! How could you treat in 
this way the companion of your bosom?" 

The fact was that the best rooms had all 
been taken. They always have been. We 
have known a great many people who went 
to watering-places, and we never knew of 
but one man who had rooms that entirely 
suited him. We have his photograph. 
The clerk at the hotel had never heard of 
the Simingtons. There are a great many 
rich people in the world, and a man must 
have a pile of dollars like an Astor or the 
Barings to be greatly distinguished. You 
see that money is a very uncertain thing, 
for many who have but little act as though 
they had much, and the really affluent often 
make but little pretension, and people are 



284 Crwnbs Swept Up. 

worth so much more after they fail than 
before they fail. The hotel clerks had no 
idea of what kind of a house the Siming- 
tons lived in, nor how many servants they 
kept, nor what mottled bays with silver 
bits moved in their flashing ''turn-out." 
The hotel proprietors knew not but that, 
notwithstanding their appearance, these 
guests might really be as poor as the 
storied turkey that belonged to the "man 
of Uz." It might be possible that the Sim- 
ingtons belonged to that class of people 
who, living at home in a small house, black- 
ing their own boots, and doing the millin- 
ery of their own hats, and making their 
own dresses from patterns which they copy 
from a shop-window, come into hotels to 
order people about, and complain of their 
apartments, of the waiters, of the table- 
cloth — trying by their "air" to give every- 
body the idea that they are accustomed to 
having things better. Depend upon it those 
who at the public table insult the waiters, 
and send back the spring chicken three 
times before they get one of a proper shade 
of brown, and slash things around con- 
spicuously, at home their greatest luxury 
is hash, which they eat ofif of a table-cloth 
in need of soap, because they do their own 
washing; and that they seldom see a spring 
chicken except in a cheap wood-cut, or at 
their frugal breakfast, in a grocery t%^ 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 285 

which some worthy hen had for three 
weeks tried to hatch out, but in grief had 
surrendered to the huckster, who wanted 
just one more to make a dozen. Those 
who in pubHc places never say ''Thank 
you!" to the waiters, at home you may be 
sure have no waiters to thank. Consider- 
ing what they have to suffer, we had rather 
be anything on earth than a hotel-waiter, 
excepting always the position of a mule on 
a tow-path, drawing a second-class canal- 
boat. 

But the Simingtons really had it better 
at home. We wonder not that they noticed 
a contrast. From a house with fourteen 
spacious apartments, they had come to 
three about as large as the rooms of a 
traveling photographist, who on four 
wheels carries from village to village art- 
gallery, bed-room, parlor, kitchen, and a 
place to dry clothes. There was no canopy 
to the bed, no embroidery to the pillows, 
no gilt on the lips of the pitcher. The 
window-shades would not work. The slats 
of the blinds were disordered, the carpet 
was faded, the drawers would not open, 
the atmosphere was musty, the files were 
multitudinous, and nothing cooled the tem- 
per of the father, or regulated the respira- 
tion of the mother, or moderated the sar- 
castic ebullitions of Frank, or relieved 
Blanche's hysterics, but the potent consid- 



286 Crumbs Swept Up. 

eration that they were, individually and 
collectively, having a good time. 

But never mind. Their names were 
down on the private list of those who had 
applied for better rooms when there were 
any vacated. We have all had our names 
down on that list. We have to-day the 
satisfaction of knowing that our names are 
down on several such lists at Long Branch, 
C-ape May, Saratoga, Bellows Falls, Niag- 
ara, and the White Mountains. It is a roll 
of honor ever increasing. We have for the 
last five years been liable any moment to 
hear that here was at last for us a capacious 
room on the first floor, sufficiently distant 
from all the house-bells, in a place where 
there would be no children passing the 
door, and free from all the odors of the 
dining-room, the windows commanding a 
fine landscape. We hereby advise all who 
go to these places to see to it immediately 
on arrival that their names are recorded on 
this private register. ' 

The fatigues of the day disposed the 
Simingtons to sound sleep at night. Bu't 
the heat was intolerable. Mrs. Simington 
got up, and sat by the window, and said 
she should die; and Simington, disturbed 
by her frequent moonlight excursions 
about the room, declared he hoped she 
would. The previous occupants of the 
room had come thither on a sleeping-car, 



Wretchedness of Watering-Places. 287 

the beds of which had been infested by 
travelers who always take a free passage, 
and who often become so- attached to peo- 
ple on a short acquaintance that they can- 
not consent to part. These little, innocent, 
previous occupants of the bed at the water- 
ing-place, were evidently provoked that 
their lodgings had been intruded upon by 
the Simingtons, and the latter, in main- 
taining a war against these creatures, were 
ofttimes put to the scratch. Mrs. Siming- 
ton at midnight compelled her husband to 
sit up on a chair, while she shook the 
sheets, and with weapons deadly as Mrs. 
Surratt's ''shooting-irons" pursued the in- 
sectiferous Amalekites, and from a bottle 
found on the shelf anointed them with an 
excellent oil that broke their heads, and in 
a fit of terrible humcrr, that was liable to 
seize her on very untoward occasions, 
asked her husband why that bed was like 
a light carriage drawn by one horse; and 
Simington for the first time in his life 
guessed right, and answered, "Because it's 
buggy." At which Mrs. Simington gave a 
Satanic laugh (she seldom laughed except 
at her own jokes), and said she did not care 
so much for the discomfort produced by 
these little things, but what she most 
thought of was her complexion. 

At last the morning dawned, and the 
whole family started to take a drink at the 



288 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Springs before breakfast. The fountains 
were surrounded by a great crowd of peo- 
ple, and the test was who should drink the 
most. Now, J. Simington was physically 
almost as much in latitude as longitude, 
and therefore had unusual capacity. He 
unbuttoned his vest and threw back the 
lapels of his coat, and seemed to take down 
a whole glass at one swallow. Blanche 
made a wry face, and said such stuff as 
that would kill her, but Antonio Grimshaw 
had told her of the twenty-four glasses he 
took before breakfast, and so she resolved 
to do her best. Out of glasses from which 
scores of scrofulous, bad-breathed, drop- 
sical people had been refreshing them- 
selves, the Simingtons, who had not for the 
last two years been willing to drink out of 
anybody else's tumbler, took down the 
disagreeable beverage. Matilda drank two 
or three glasses, and said she thought there 
was reason in all things, and that she had 
enough. But the rest of the family took ten 
apiece before they began to discuss the 
question of stopping. Then they made 
several turns about the grass-plot, and 
came back able to take more. They sip- 
ped the liquid health. They poured it 
down. They plunged their face into the 
glass till their nose dripped with it. They 
drank for a while standing on one foot, 
then they resumed standing on the other. 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 289 

They quaffed the nectar of the hills till the 
dipping-boys were confounded. Others 
handed the glasses back, the contents only 
half taken; these drained the last drop at 
the bottom. They rolled the water under 
their tongue as though it were perfect 
sweetness. They took up the brimming 
cups carefully, so as not to spill the precious 
liquid. After most of the health-seekers 
had left the fountain, Mrs. Simington cried 
out, "More! more! Here, boy! attend to 
your business!" And when at last they 
wended their way toward the hotel, they 
feared they had not fully improved their 
privileges. 

For some reason they all day felt miser- 
a:ble, and had no appetite, felt faint, and 
chilly, and nauseated, so that before noon 
Blanche went to her bed and had a doc- 
tor. But that night was to come off the 
"hop" of the season, and sick or well she 
meant to go to it. During the forenoon 
Matilda nursed her sister, and answered 
her fears ^ y prophecy that she would soon 
feel better As the hour for the "hop" drew 
near, the sick one recovered. Taking only 
a short while for her own toilet, Matilda 
gave her chief time to the adornment of 
Blanche and her mother. All the trunks 
were opened, and out came all the splendor 
of the Simingtons, the numberless items of 
which I have already named. Matilda se- 

19 



290 Cruvibs Swept Up. 

lected for the evening- the tamer colors; 
but Mrs. Siminofton exclaimed, "Matilda! 
you shall not make a Methodist of your 
sister." 

The ornamentation went on until ten 
o'clock. The elder Simino-ton had ^ot 
himself into a profuse perspiration in try- 
ing to tie Mrs. Simington's corsets, and in 
the effort to bring together the fastenings 
of Blanche's dress the energies of the whole 
family were taxed. But, the work done, 
they start for the ball-room. Such a caval- 
cade seldom descended at the watering- 
pla-ce. Blanche was in perpetual dread lest 
some one should tread on her dress, and 
her mother worried lest her own headgear 
should not be appreciated. The music of 
the orchestra rose to their ears, and with 
a feeling' of pride and jubilance that sur- 
passed everything the Simingtons had felt, 
they march into the brilliant circle. The 
mother was well pleased to see Matilda 
take a chair in an inconspicuous place, in- 
stead of joining the dance, for notwith- 
standing all that maternal kindness could 
effect, Matilda would walk naturally, and 
took no pains lo hide her unfashionable 
waist, and blushed so red on the least pro- 
vocation that her cheek was as ruddy as a 
mountain lass who had never done any- 
thing to improve her complexion. But 
Frank, with Blanche on his arm, prom- 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 291 

enaded the room that all might admire his 
sister's beauty. 

The rustle of silks, the tap of a hundred 
feet, the quick pulsations of Uutes and 
horns, the maj^nihccnt burst of harmonies, 
the ringing voice of the manager, the blaze 
of diamonds on head and hand and neck, 
the bow, the whirl, the laughter, the trans- 
port, were beyond anticipation. At the 
close of the first *'set," Mrs. Simington, in 
manner naive as any girl, and with silk fan 
patting her lip, stood before a bashful 
young man, whom she had thoroughly 
cornered with her outspread immensity of 
skirts, engaged in conversation, chiefiy 
conducted by herself, in which were most 
prominent the words, "Reallv," "Indeed," 
"Delightful." "Sonice," "Yes!" "Mvstars!" 
and similar expressions, suggestive of af- 
fluence of thought and profundity of inves- 
tigation. But it must be acknowledged 
that this lady produced that night no pleas- 
ing impression. She was set down as one 
of that class of women who may always be 
seen in such places, and who, having out- 
lived their youthfulness, have an idea that 
by extra lace, skirt, slipper, and mincing 
they can make themselves perfectly killing. 
One of the worst-looking birds that we 
know of is a peacock after it has lost its 
feathers. 



292 Crumbs Swept Up. 

The handsomest man on the floor was 
Dallas Clifford. His walk, his glance, his 
dress, his talk were a perpetual sensation. 
For several summers he made the tour of 
the watering-places, now stopping at the 
Falls, then at the Springs, and concluding 
at the sea-shore. He had long done as he 
pleased, his father from a princely purse 
furnishing him all he desired. His hands 
had never been hardened by toil, nor his 
brow paled with thought. He had been 
expelled the first year of his college course 
for indolence and occasional dissipation. He 
had no regard for God or man, but great 
admiration for the ladies. That night as 
he moved in the dance there were scores 
who exclaimed, "Such eyes!" "Such lips!'* 
"Such gait!" "Who ever saw the equal?" 

During the day, Frank Simington, while 
taking a drink at the bar, had been intro- 
duced to this pet of the watering-places. 
They were immediately congenial, found 
they liked the same kind of wines, the 
same kind of fast horses, and the same style 
of feminine beauty. So they drank each 
other's health, and before a week had 
passed, drank it in sulphur water at the 
Springs, drank it in Hock, drank it in 
Cognac, drank it in Burgundy, drank it in 
Madeira, drank it in London gin, drank it 
in the varieties of Champagne affected by 
the initiated. 



Wretchedness of Watering-Places. 293 

Frank was resolved that at the *'hop" his 
sister Blanche should have the advantage of 
an acquaintance with Dallas Clifford. In 
the making up of the first "set" the intro- 
duction took place, and Clifford offered his 
arm, and accompanied Blanche in all the 
dances of the evening. Together they 
bounded in the ''galop," and bowed in 
"The Lancers," and stepped in "The 
Redowa," and whirled in the "waltz." If 
there really were darts in jealous eyes, 
Blanche would have been transfixed with a 
hundred. It seemed almost a imanimous 
opinion that she was not fit to dance with 
such a prodigy. There were many who 
would have been glad to hear her dress 
rip, or see her false hair tumble. An en- 
vious mamma, who had for three hours 
been arranging her own daughter with es- 
pecial reference to the capture of Clifford, 
remarked in quite loud voice, hoping that 
Blanche would hear it, "I knew her father 
when he sold fish in the market!" "Yes," 
says another, "the Simingtons always were 
vulgar!" But Blanche's mother looked on 
with an admiration she did not try to con- 
ceal. She thought, "How beautiful they 
look together! Both young; both hand- 
some; both rich. It would be just the 
thing." She looked at Simington, and 
Simington looked at her with a joy equal 
to that which he felt on the day when from 



294 Crumbs Swept Up. 

the top of "Slippery Rock" he tumbled into 
a fortune. 

While the Simingtons returned to their 
rooms in a state of delectation, there were 
many who left the ball-room with hearts 
far from happy. Their splendor of dress 
had not been appreciated. They had not 
danced with those whose company they 
most desired. Others not half so attractive 
as themselves had carried off the spoils, and 
the "hop" had kindled more heart-burn- 
ings, jealousies, scandals, revenges, satires, 
and backbitings than will ever be told of. 
Some wished they were home. Others 
wished they had been dressed differently. 
Still others wished they had gone to some 
other watering-place, where they would 
have been appreciated. They denounced 
the music, and the manager, and the ball- 
room. The men were all "gawks," and the 
ladies all "flirts," and the whole evening a 
vexation. They never before saw such 
miserable headdresses, or such ridiculous 
slippers, or so many paste diamonds. Some 
of the more tenderly nervous, as soon as 
they reached their rooms, sat down and 
cried. They had been neglected. They 
took such coldness on the part of gentle- 
men as a positive insult. They threw their 
satin slippers into the corner with a ven- 
geance, and, in perfect recklessness as to 
consequences, tossed a two-pound ball of 



Wretchedness of Waterhig- Places. 295 

hair against the looking-glass, and vowed, 
they would never go again. 

Not so with Blanche, for she dreamed all 
night of castles, and parks of deer, and 
galleries of art, and music, and gobelin 
tapestry, and of gondolas putting out from 
golden sands, on sapphire waters, angel- 
beckoned. But the next morning the 
whole Simington family gathered them- 
selves together to attend to Matilda. The 
evening before, instead of whirling in the 
dance, she had sat and looked on, much of 
the time talking to a long, lean, cadaverous 
gentleman, who had somehow obtained ac- 
quaintance with her. The gentleman, hav- 
ing just graduated from the law school, 
had come to recruit from exhaustion of 
protracted study, and was staying at ''The 
Brodwell House," a cheap but respectable 
hotel, on one of the less prominent streets. 
He was plainly dressed, had neither dia- 
mond breast-pin, nor kid gloves, nor whisk 
cane, nor easy manners. He came in that 
evening to see what he could learn of the 
gay world, and sat studying character while 
looking at the ''hop." The Simingtons 
felt outraged at Matilda's behavior. How 
could she sit there and talk with a man 
who was stopping at the Brodwell House! 
He would never be anything. He had ac- 
tually appeared in bare hands, and they 
were big. How could she throw herself 



296 Crumbs Swept Up, 

away, and forget her father's name, and 
her mother's entreaty, and her sister's pros- 
pects! "But," said Matilda, "he was in- 
telHgent, and the tones of his voice indi- 
cated a kind disposition, and the ideas he 
expressed were elevated, and positively 
Christian." "Dear me!" said her mother; 
"Matilda! I expect you will pass your whole 
life in saying your prayers and talking reli- 
gion. I despair of ever making you any- 
thing worthy of the Simingtons!" "More 
than that," said Matilda, "his conversation 
was very improving, and we have engaged 
to walk to-day to Cedar Grove, and exam- 
ine the peculiar flora which he says abound 
in that region. We are both very fond of 
botany." 

While Matilda and the law student were 
out on the floral excursion, and talking of 
all the subjects kindred to flowers, Dallas 
Clifford and Blanche were arm-in-arm 
promenading the piazza, or at the piano; 
while Miss Simington was making up for 
her lack of musical skill by great exuber- 
ance of racket, Clifford was turning for her 
the leaves, and, between his favorite selec- 
tions, uttering various sentimentalities, and 
interlarding his conversation with all the 
French phrases he knew — such as tout en- 
semble, valet de chambre, hors du combat, a la 
belle etoile, chateau en Espagne, till several 
persons standing near felt so sick they had 



Wretchedness of Watering- Places. 297 

to leave the room and take a little soda to 
settle their stomachs. 

Meanwhile, from day to day, and from 
week to week, Mr. and Mrs. Simington 
wandered about, not knowing what to do 
with themselves. They had no taste for 
reading, although on Rittenhouse Square 
they had a costly library; indeed they 
owned ten thousand dollars' worth of 
books. Through a literary friend em- 
powered to make selection, J. Simington 
had secured all the standard works of his- 
tory, poetry, romance, art, and ethics. Al- 
though acquainted with none of the dead 
languages, he owned ^schylus, Lucian, 
Sophocles, Strabo, Pindar, and Plautus. He 
rejoiced in possessing so many square feet 
of brains, and realized that Aristophanes 
ought to feel honored to stand on the shelf 
of the Simingtons. Several times he had 
looked at the pictures in Don Quixote, and 
took the engraving of the traveler in Pil- 
grim's Progress to be the sketch of some 
unfortunate traveler in the oil regions, and 
supposed that Macaulay's History was 
merely a continuance of the wonderful es- 
capes of Robinson Crusoe, and that 
"Young's Night Thoughts" was the story 
of some dream which that worthy had ex- 
perienced after a late supper of boiled crabs. 
Nevertheless, there were whole shelves of 
books in richest foreign bindings, printed 



298 Crumbs Swept Up. 

on vellum, tipped with gold, set off with ex- 
quisite vignettes. Among these a copy of 
the Scriptures, upon which all the wealth 
of typology, etching, and book-bindery had 
displayed itself — a Bible so grandly gotten 
up, that if the inspired fishermen had come 
in, and, with their hands yet hard from the 
fishing-tackle, had attempted to touch it, 
they would have been kicked out. 

Mr. and Mrs. Simington had not brought 
with them any of these standard works, but 
for purposes of light reading had bought 
from the news-boy on the cars five volumes, 
entitled, "The Revenge," 'The Bloody 
Tinge," "Castles on FiVe," "The Frightful 
Leap," and "The Murderess on Trial." But 
they had no taste even for such fascinating 
literature. Mrs. Simington, with "The 
Frightful Leap" under her arm, walked 
from bedroom to parlor, and from parlor 
to hall, and from hall to piazza, wondering 
when dinner would be ready. She tried to 
sleep in the daytime, but the bed was hard, 
and she felt restless. She met on the stairs 
a lady who like herself was afflicted with 
restlessness, and said that the day was hot, 
or dusty, or asked the other lady how many 
glasses of water she could take before break- 
fast, and then passed on. She sat down 
and groaned without any apparent cause. 
She walked in front of the long mirror to 
see how her shawl looked, and then walked 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 299 

back again, then stepped up face to face 
with the looking-glass, gave a twist to one 
of her curls, drew her face into a pucker, 
surveyed the room to see if any one was 
observing, and then sat down again. She 
jogged her foot uneasily, and thumped her 
fingers on the table, and looked for the 
twentieth time at the pictures in "The 
Frightful Leap," and, without any especial 
feeling of hunger, longed for the doors of 
the dining-hall to open, that she might 
have something to do. She found no relief 
from this feeling in looking at others, for 
nine-tenths of all the ladies were wander- 
ing about in the same perplexity. They 
differed in many other things. Some had 
fans, and some were without fans. Some 
wore white, and some black. Some had 
curls, and some no curls. Some roomed in 
the third story, and some in the fourth. 
Some took soup, and some did not. But 
whatever might be their differences, they 
nearly all agreed in a feeling of unrest, 
longed for something to do, studied where 
they had better go next, agonized for some- 
thing to see, and wondered when dinner 
would be ready. 

Mr. Simington exhibited in a different 
way the same feeling. At home he was a 
man of business. Though owning a large 
estate, he had the peculiarity of wanting 
more. The change from the active com- 



300 Crumbs Swept Up. 

mercial circles in which he was accustomed 
to mingle, to his present entire cessation 
from business was unbearable. He walked 
about with the solemnity, but without the 
resignation of a martyr. He bothered the 
clerk of the hotel by incessantly asking, "Is 
the mail in?" He wondered whether stocks 
were up or down. Wondered whether his 
firm had heard from that man out West. 
Wondered if they were working off that 
old stock of goods. He walked over to the 
billiard saloon; went down to the bowling- 
alley; felt thankful as he met a little Indian 
boy with arrows wanting a penny put up to 
be shot at; walked round the block, came 
back and asked, "Is the mail in?" 

But there was another form of amuse- 
ment in which J. Simington frequently 
found relief, and that was in the examina- 
tion of the hotel register. It was such a 
pleasant thing to go up and read the ar- 
rivals for the last month, and study the 
chirography of distinguished individuals. 
The only hindrance to this was the fact 
that a dozen other gentlemen with nothing 
else to do were wanting to examine the 
record at the same time, those standing in 
front somewhat vexed at having so many 
people looking over their shoulder. 

Although possessing large means, he 
whiled away much of the time by denounc- 
ing the extortion of hotel-keepers, and the 



Wretchedness of Watering-Places. 301 

extortion of boot-blacks, and the extortion 
of porters, and the extortion of Hvery-men. 
As to the waiters, he said you were sure 
to get macaroni soup when you ordered 
mock-turtle, or blue-fish when you ordered 
sheep's-head. What was worse for a nerv- 
ous man, there were so many sick people 
who had gone there for their health. But 
this imposition, which J. Simington bore in 
silence, his wife openly condemned. "How 
can I stand it?" she cried, "this everlasting 
wheezing of asthmatics, and hobbling of 
cripples, and dropsical swellings, and jaun- 
diced complexions, and display of sores!" 
She did not know why such people were 
allowed to come there. It was perfectly 
outrageous. The place for sick people was 
at home. Once she lay all night with two 
pillows and a shawl on her ear, so as not 
to hear the coughing in an adjoining apart- 
ment. 

At last the day for the long-expected 
horse-race arrived, and although J. Sim- 
ington and his wife did not much approve 
of horse-racing, they hired a carriage at 
ten dollars an hour (vehicles were that day 
so much in demand) and went out to the 
course. The dust flew till Mrs. Siming- 
ton's eyes and mouth and nose were full, 
and two fast gentlemen, with their horses 
at full run, dashed into the carriage of our 
friends, and almost upset them. But Mr. 



302 Crumbs Swept Up. 

Simington soothed his wife's consterna- 
tion, and cahned her feeUngs, by bidding 
her remember that they were having a 
good time. The platforms were crowded, 
sporting hats were numerous, all the ad- 
joining stables crowded with fine horses, 
which were being rubbed down and 
blanketed. And to put themselves under 
the treatment of the elevating influences of 
the race-course, there came in gamblers, 
pickpockets, thieves, horse-jockeys, bloats, 
and libertines. It was high carnival for 
rum, onions, tobacco-spit, long hair thick 
with bear's-grease and ox-marrow, strong 
cigars, poor cologne, banter, and blas- 
phemy. You could no more doubt the 
high morality of the races if you looked at 
the horses, for they were well-dressed, 
drank nothing but water, and used no bad 
language. When the two favorite race- 
horses sped round the track, nostril to 
nostril, flank to flank, Mrs. Simington 
wanted to bet, and Mr. Simington threw 
up his hat, and she said, '*Did you ever?'* 
and he answered, ''No! I never did!" 

That night, as they were about to retire, 
a loud rap was heard at their door. Frank, 
in a state of beastly intoxication, was 
ushered in by Dallas Clifford, himself only 
a few degrees less damaged. They had 
both been at the horse-race, and since their 
return had tarried at the bar. As Frank's 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places. 303 

hat fell off, there was seen across his fore- 
head a long gash made by the glass of an 
enraged comrade, because Frank, having 
lost a bet, had refused to pay up. Some 
one had relieved him of his gold watch, 
and, splashed with mud and vomit, he fell 
over at the feet of his father and mother, 
the only son of the Simingtons. The truth 
v/as, that during all the weeks of their 
stay, Frank, in order to throw off ennui 
and keep up his spirits, had made frequent 
visits to the bar-room, drinking with all 
his new acquaintances. Dallas Clifford 
drank even more, but had a constitution not 
so easily capsized. Indeed, after his fifth 
glass of old Otard, he won a bet by suc- 
cessfully walking a crack in the floor. 

We have noticed around many of our 
watering-places a class of fast young men 
with faces flushed, and eyes bloodshot, and 
hair excessively oiled, and whiskers ex- 
tremely curled, and handkerchief furiously 
perfumed, and breath that dashes the air 
with odors of mint- julep and a destroyed 
stomach. They watch about the door for 
new-comers, make up their mind whether a 
young man has money, invite him to drink, 
coax him to throw dice, smite his ear with 
uncleanness, poison his imagination, un- 
dermine his health, and plunge their vultur- 
ous beak into the vitals of his soul. Frank, 
through expectation of heiring large prop- 



304 Crumbs Swept Up. 

erty, had for some time been going down, 
and the six weeks passed at the fashionable 
watering-place fastened on him a chain 
which he was never to break. He was go- 
ing with lightning speed on a down grade, 
spent the most of the next six months at 
saloons, and died of delirium tremens on 
Rittenhouse Square, his last moments 
haunted by such terrors, that to drown his 
shrieks, the neighbors for a block around 
held their ears, and prayed God that their 
own sons might be saved from the dissi- 
pations of fashionable watering-places. 

But I must not go so fast. You want to 
know whether the law-student and Matilda 
ever got back from their floral excursion? 
No, never; they are hunting flowers yet, 
and always finding them in pairs; plucking 
them in all the walks of life, by streams of 
gladness, on hills of joy, in shady nooks. 
They could find nettles, and wasps, and 
colopendra, if so they desired. They are 
not hunting for these. They are looking for 
flowers; and so there is the breath of the 
evening primrose in their conversation, 
and the distillation of sweet-alyssum in 
their demeanor, and the aroma of phlox in 
their disposition. They are hunting flow- 
ers to-day in the door-yard of a plain house 
on the outskirts of the village. 

Last night, he, who was a year ago a 
law-student, plead in the court-room for a 



Wretchedness of Watering -Places, 305 

man's life, and plead in such tones of sur- 
passing tenderness and power, that this 
morning his table was covered with con- 
gratulatory notes from old members of the 
bar, saying that the like of it they had 
never heard, and prophesying topmost 
eminence in his profession; and people who 
have wrongs to right, and estates to settle, 
and causes to plead, have been coming in 
all day to give him retainers. The young 
man is as modest now as on the evening 
when he wandered up with his big hands 
from the Brodwell House to witness the 
*'hop." And Matilda talks so much of the 
kindness of God that her mother still calls 
her a Methodist. Indeed, when this young 
husband and wife go out to hunt flowers, 
they do not look for anything large or pre- 
tentious, but, strolling along on the grass, 
are apt to come upon a nest of violets. 

Do you want to know the sequel of Dal- 
las Clifford's demeanor? At the Springs 
he never appeared before Blanche until his 
breath had been properly disguised, and 
the last mark of rowdyism was brushed off. 
At the close of the six weeks, and a few 
days before the Simingtons took their de- 
parture, affairs between Dallas and Blanche 
came to a settlement. Much of the talk 
about blushes, awful silences, and faintings 
at such a crisis is an invention of story- 
writers. The last time a sham lady would 



3o6 Crumbs Swept Up. 

faint is at such a juncture, especially if it 
were a good offer. 

But one thing was certain: about two 
months afterward, the mansion on Ritten- 
house Square was lighted for a wedding. 
The carriages reached a block each way. 
Everybody said that Blanche looked beau- 
tiful. Dallas Clifford took her hand, and 
vowed before Almighty God, and a great 
cloud of witnesses, that he would love, 
cherish, and protect. 

The wine poured from the bottles, and 
foamed in the beakers, and glowed under 
the chandeliers. Dallas Clifford drank 
with all, drank again and again. Drank 
with old and young. Drank with brothers 
and sisters. Drank until Blanche besought 
him to take no more. Drank till his 
tongue was ^hick, and his knees weakened, 
and the banquet swam away from his vi- 
sion, and he was carried up stairs, strug- 
gling, hooping, and cursing. Oh! there 
was an unseen Hand writing on that gilded 
wall terrible meanings. There was a ser- 
pent that put its tongue from that basket 
of grapes on the table. On the smoke of 
the costly viands an evil spirit floated. In- 
stead of the ring in the bride's cake, there 
was an iron chain. Those red drops on 
the table were not so much spilled wine as 
blood. Louder than the guffaw of laugh- 
ter arose the hiccough of despair. 



Swallowing a Fly, 307 

SWALLOWING A FLY. 

A country meeting-house. A mid-sum- 
mer Sabbath. The air lazy and warm. The 
grave-yard around about oppressively still, 
the white slabs here and there shining in 
the light like the drifted snows of death, 
and not a grass-blade rustling as though a 
sleeper had stirred in his dream. 

Clap-boards of the church weather- 
beaten, and very much bored, either by 
bumble-bees, or long sermons, probably 
the former, as the puncture was on the out- 
side, instead of the in. Farmers, worn out 
with harvesting, excessively soothed by 
the services into dreaming of the good time 
coming, when wheat shall be worth twice 
as much to the bushel, and a basket of 
fresh-laid eggs will buy a Sunday jacket for 
a boy. 

We had come to the middle of our ser- 
mon, when a large fly, taking advantage of 
the opened mouth of the speaker, darted 
into our throat. The crisis was upon us. 
Shall we cough and eject this impertinent 
intruder, or let him silently have his way? 
We had no precedent to guide us. We 
knew not what the fathers of the church did 
in like circumstances, or the mothers either. 
We are not informed that Chrysostom ever 
turned himself into a fly-trap. We knew 
not what the Synod of Dort would have 



3o8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

said to a minister's eating flies during reli- 
gious services. 

We saw the unfairness of taking advant- 
age of a fly in such straightened circum- 
stances. It may have been a bHnd fly, and 
not have known where it was going. It 
may have been a scientific fly, and only ex- 
perimenting with air currents. It may 
have been a reckless fly, doing what he 
soon would be sorry for, or a young fly, 
and gone a-sailing on Sunday without his 
mother's consent. 

Besides this, we are not fond of flies pre- 
pared in that way. We have, no doubt, 
often taken them preserved in blackberry 
jam, or, in the poorly lighted eating-house, 
taken them done up in New Orleans syrup. 
But fly in the raw was a diet from which 
we recoiled. We would have preferred it 
roasted, or fried, or panned, or baked, and 
then to have chosen our favorite part, the 
upper joint, and a little of the breast, if you 
please, sir. But, no; it was wings, probos- 
cis, feet, poisers, and alimentary canal. 
There was no choice; it was all, or none. 

We foresaw the excitement and disturb- 
ance we would make, and the probability 
of losing our thread of discourse, if we 
undertook a series of coughs, chokings, 
and expectorations, and that, after all our 
efforts, we might be unsuccessful, and end 
the affray with a fly's wing on our lip, and a 



Swallowing a Fly 309 

leg in the windpipe, and the most unsavory 
part of it all under the tongue. 

We concluded to take down the nui- 
sance. We rallied all our energies. It was 
the most animated passage in all our dis- 
course. We were not at all hungry for 
anything, much less for such hastily pre- 
pared viands. We found it no easy job. 
The fly evidently wanted to back out. 
*'No!" we said within ourselves; ''too late 
to retreat. You are in for it now!" We 
addressed it in the words of Noah to the 
orang-outang, as it was about entering the 
Ark, and lingered too long at the door, 
''Go in, sir — go in!" 

And so we conquered, giving a warning 
to flies and men that it is easier to get into 
trouble than to get out again. We have 
never mentioned the above circum.stance 
before; we felt it a delicate subject. But all 
the fly's friends are dead, and we can slan- 
der it as much as we please, and there is no 
danger now. We have had the thing on 
our mind ever since we had it on our stom- 
ach, and so we come to this confessional. 

You acknowledge that we did the wisest 
thing that could be done; and yet how 
many people spend their time in elaborate, 
and long-continued, and convulsive ejec- 
tion of flies which they ought to swallow 
and have done with. 

Your husband's thoughtlessness is an ex- 



3IO Crumbs Swept Up. 

ceeding annoyance. He is a good man, no 
better husband since Adam gave up a spare 
rib as a nucleus around which to gather a 
woman. But he is careless about where he 
throws his slippers. For fifteen years you 
have lectured him about leaving the news- 
paper on the floor. Do not let such little 
things interfere with your domestic peace. 
Better swallow the fly, and have done 
with it. 

Here is a critic, to you a perpetual an- 
noyance. He has no great capacity him- 
self, but he keeps up a constant buzzing. 
You write a book, he caricatures it. You 
make a speech, he sneers at it. You never 
open your mouth but he flies into it. You 
have used up a magazine of powder in try- 
ing to curtail the sphere of that insect. 
You chased him around the corner of a 
Quarterly Revieiv. You hounded him out 
from the cellar of a newspaper. You stop 
the urgent work of life to catch one poor 
fly — the Cincinnati Express train stopping 
at midnight to send a brakeman ahead with 
flag and lantern to scare the mosquitoes off 
the track; a "Swamp-Angel" out a gun- 
ning for rats! 

It never pays to hunt a fly. You clutch 
at him. You sweep your hand convulsively 
through the air. You wait till he alights 
on your face, and then give a fierce slap 
on the place where he was. You slyly wait 



Swallowing a Fly. 311 

till he crawls up your sleeve, and then give 
a violent crush to the folds of your coat, to 
find out that it was a different fly from the 
one you were searching for. That one 
sits laughing at your vexation from the tip 
of your nose. 

Apothecaries advertise insect-extermin- 
ators; but if in summer-time we set a glass 
to catch flies, for every one we kill there 
are twelve coroners caUed to sit as jury of 
inquest; and no sooner does one disappear 
under our fell pursuit, than all its brothers, 
sisters, nephews, nieces, and second cous- 
ins come out to see what in the world is the 
matter. So with the unclean critics that 
crawl over an author's head. You cannot 
destroy them with bludgeons. There is a 
time in a schoolboy's history when a fine- 
tooth comb will give him more relief than 
a whole park of artillery. O, man, go on 
with your life-work! If, opening your 
mouth to say the thing that ought to be 
said, a fly dart in, swallow it! 

The current of your happiness is often 
choked up by trifles. Your chimney 
smokes. Through the thick vapor you see 
no blessing left. You feel that with the 
right kind of a chimney you could be 
happy. It would be worse if you had no 
chimney at all, and still worse if you had 
no fire. Household annoyances multiply 
the martyrs of the kitchen. They want of 



312 Crumbs Swept Up. 

more pantry room, the need of an addi- 
tional closet, the smallness of the bread- 
tray, the defectiveness of the range, the 
lack of draught in a furnace, a crack in the 
saucepan, are flies in the throat. Open 
your mouth, shut your eyes, and gulp down 
the annoyances. 

The aforesaid fly, of whose demise I 
spoke, was digested, and turned into mus- 
cle and bone, and went to preaching him- 
self. Vexations conquered become addi- 
tional strength. We would all be rich in 
disposition, if we learned to tax for our 
benefit the things that stick and scratch. 
We ought to collect a tariff on needles and 
pins. The flower struck of the tempest, 
catches the drop that made it tremble, and 
turns the water into wine. The battle in, 
and the victory dependent on your next 
sabre-stroke, throw not your armor down 
to shake a gravel from your shoe. The 
blue fly of despondency has choked to 
death many a giant. 

Had we stopped on the aforesaid day to 
kill the insect, at the same time we would 
have killed our sermon. We could not 
waste our time on such a combat. Truth 
ought not to be wrecked on an insect's pro- 
boscis. You are all ordained to some mis- 
sion by the laying on of the hard hands of 
work, the white hands of joy, and the black 
hands of trouble. Whether your pulpit be 



spoiled Childre7i. 313 

blacksmith's anvil, or carpenter's bench, 
or merchant's counter, do not stop for a fly. 
Our every life is a sermon. Our birth is 
the text from which we start. Youth is 
the introduction to the discourse. During 
our manhood we lay down a few proposi- 
tions and prove them. Some of the pas- 
sages are dull, and some sprightly. Then 
come inferences and applications. At 
seventy years we say, ''Fifthly and Lastly." 
The Doxology is sung. The Benediction 
is pronounced. The Book closed. It is 
getting cold. Frost on the window-pane. 
Audience gone. Shut up the church. Sex- 
ton goes home with the key on his shoul- 
der. 



-)o(- 



SPOILED CHILDREN. 

The old adage that a girl is worth a 
thousand dollars, and a boy worth fifteen 
hundred, is a depreciation of values. I 
warrant that the man who invented the 
theory was a bachelor, or he would not 
have set dow^n the youngsters so far below 
cost. When the poorest child is born, a 
star of joy points down to the manger. 

We are tired of hearing of the duty that 
children owe to their parents. Let some 
one write a disquisition on what parents 



3^4 Crumbs Swept Up. 

owe to their children. What though they 
do upset things, and chase the cats, and eat 
themselves into colic with green apples, 
and empty the caster of sweet-oil into the 
gravy, and bedaub their hands with tar? 
Grown people have the privilege of larger 
difficulties, and will you not let the children 
have a few smaller predicaments? How 
can we ever pay them for the prattle that 
drives our cares away, and the shower of 
soft flaxen curls on our hot cheek, and the 
flowers with which they have strewn our 
way, plucking them from the margin of 
their cradles, and the opening with little 
hands of doors into new dispensations of 
love? 

A well-regulated home is a millennium 
on a small scale — the lion and leopard nature 
by infantile stroke subdued — and *'a little 
child shall lead them." Blessed the pillow 
of the trundle-bed on which rests the 
young head that never ached ! Blessed the 
day whose morning is wakened by the pat- 
ter of little feet! Blessed -the heart from 
which all the soreness is drawn out by the 
soft hand of a babe! 

But there are children which have been 
so thoroughly spoiled they are a terror to 
the community. As you are about to enter 
your neighbor's door, his turbulent boy 
will come at you with 'the plunge of a 
buffalo, pitching his head into your di- 



spoiled Children, 315 

aphragm. He will in the night stretch a 
rope from tree to tree to dislocate your 
hat, or give some passing citizen a sud- 
den halt as the rope catches at the throat, 
and he is hung before his time. They can, 
in a day, break more toys, slit more kites, 
lose more marbles than all the fathers and 
mothers of the neighborhood could restore 
in a week. They talk roughly, make old 
people stop to let them pass, upset the lit- 
tle girl's school-basket, and make them- 
selves universally disagreeable. You feel 
as if you would like to get hold of them 
just for once, or in their behalf call on the 
firm of Birch & Spank. 

It is easy enough to spoil a child. No 
great art is demanded. Only three or four 
things are requisite to complete the work. 
Make all the nurses wait on him and fly at 
his bidding. Let him learn never to go for 
a drink, but always have it brought to him. 
At ten years of age have Bridget tie his 
shoe-strings. Let him strike auntie be- 
cause she will not get him a sugar-plum. 
He will soon learn that the house is his 
realm, and he is to rule it. He will come 
up into manhood one of those precious 
spirits that demand obeisance and service, 
and with the theory that the world is his 
oyster, which with knife he will proceed to 
open. 

If that does not spoil him, buy him a 



3i6 Crumbs Swept Up. 

horse. It is exhilarating and enlarging for 
a man to own such an animal. A good 
horseback ride shakes up the liver and 
helps the man to be virtuous, for it is al- 
most impossible to be good, with too much 
bile, and enlarged spleen, or a stomach off 
duty. We congratulate any man who can 
afford to own a horse; but if a boy own 
one, he will probably ride on it to destruc- 
tion. He will stop at the tavern for drinks. 
He will bet at the races. There will be 
room enough in the same saddle for idle- 
ness and dissipation to ride, one of them 
before, and one of them behind. The bit 
will not be strong enough to rein in at the 
right place. There are men who all their 
lives have been going down hill, and the 
reason is that in boyhood they sprang 
astride a horse, and got going so fast that 
they have never been able to stop. 

But if the child be insensible to all such 
efforts to spoil him, try the plan of never 
saying anything encouraging to him. If 
he do wrong, thrash him soundly; but if 
he do well, keep on reading the newspaper, 
pretending not to see him. There are ex- 
cellent people, who, through fear of pro- 
ducing childish vanity, are unresponsive to 
the very best endeavor. When a child 
earns parental applause he ought to have 
it. If he get up head at school, give him 
a book or an apple. If he saw a bully on 



spoiled Children. 317 

the play-ground trampling on a sickly boy, 
and your son took the bully by the throat 
so tightly that he became a little variegated 
in color, praise your boy, and let him 
know that you love to have him the cham- 
pion of the weak. Perhaps you would not 
do right a day, if you had no more pros- 
pect of reward than that which you have 
given him. If on commencement-day he 
make the best speech, or read the best 
essay, tell him of it. Truth is always 
harmless, and the more you use of it the 
better. If your daughter at the conserva- 
tory take the palm, give her a new piece of 
music, a ring, a kiss, or a blessing. 

But if you have a child invulnerable to 
all other influences, and he cannot be 
spoiled by any means al ady recom- 
mended, give him plenty of money, with- 
out any questions as to what he does with 
it. The fare is cheap on the road between 
here and Smashupton. I have known boys 
with five dollars to pay their way clear 
through, and make all the connections on 
the "Grand Trunk" route to perdition. We 
know not why loose cash in a boy's pocket 
is called pin money, unless because it often 
sticks a hole into his habits. First he will 
buy raisins, then almonds, then a whisk 
cane, then a breast-pin, then cigars, then 
a keg of 'lager," then a ticket for a drunken 
excursion, and there may possibly be money 



3i8 Crumbs Swept Up. 

enough left for the father to buy for his \ 
boy a coffin. 

Let children know something of the 
worth of money, by earning it. Over-pay 
them if you will, but let them get some 
idea of equivalents. If they get distorted 
notions of values at the start, they will 
never be righted. Daniel Webster knew 
everything except how to use money. 
From boyhood he had things mixed up. 
His mother gave him and Ezekiel money 
for Fourth of July. As the boys came 
back from the village, the mother said, 
"Daniel, what did you buy with your 
money?" and he answered, "I bought a 
cake and a candy, and some beer, and 
some fire-crackers." Then turning to 
Ezekiel she said, "What did you buy with 
your money?" "Oh," said Ezekiel, "Dan- 
iel borrowed mine." 

On the other hand, it is a ruinous policy 
to be parsimonious with children. If a boy 
find that a parent has plenty of money, 
and he, the boy, has none, the temptation 
will be to steal the first cent he can lay 
his hand on. Oh, the joy that five pennies 
can buy for a boy! They seem to open be- 
fore him a Paradise of licorice-drops and 
cream-candy. You cannot in after-life buy 
so much superb satisfaction with five thou- 
sand dollars as you bought with your first 
five cents. Children need enough money, 



spoiled Children. 319 

but not a superfluity. Freshets wash away 
more cornfields than they culture. 

Boys and girls are often spoiled by 
parental gloom. The father never unbends. 
The mother's rheumatism hurts so, she 
does not see how little Maggie can ever 
laugh. Childish curiosity is denounced as 
impertinence. The parlor is a Parliament, 
and everything in everlasting order. Balls 
and tops in that house are a nuisance, and 
the pap that the boy is expected most to 
relish is geometry, a little sweetened with 
chalk of blackboards. For cheerful read- 
ing the father would recommend "Young's 
Night Thoughts" and Hervey's "Medi- 
tations among the Tombs." 

At the first chance the boy will break 
loose. With one grand leap he will clear 
the catechisms. He will burst away into 
all riotous living. He will be so glad to 
get out of Egypt that he will jump into 
the Red Sea. The hardest colts to catch 
are those that have a long while been 
locked up. Restraints are necessary, but 
there must be some outlet. Too high a 
dam will overflow all the meadows. 

A sure way of spoiling children is by 
surfeiting them with food. Many of them 
have been stuffed to death. The mother 
spoke of it as a grand achievement that her 
boy ate ten eggs at Easter. He waddles 
across the room under burdens of porter- 



320 Crumbs Swept Up. 

house steak and plum-pudding enough to 
swamp a day-laborer. He runs his arm up 
to the elbow in the jar of blackberry jam, 
and pulls it out amid the roar of the whole 
household thrown into hysterics with the 
witticism. After a while he has a pain, 
then he gets ''the dumps," soon he will be 
troubled with indigestion, occasionally he 
will have a fit, and last of all he gets a 
fever, and dies. The parents have no idea 
that they are to blame. Beautiful verses 
are cut on the tombstone, when, if the 
truth had been told, the epitaph would 
have read — 

Killed by Apple Dumplings! 



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